


Deadly Agent

by Hertz



Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Actually I admit it this is pretty much a friendship fic as well, Awkwardness, Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M, Slow Burn, This is also slowly becoming 'daily shenanigans of food souls', with BB-52 as the main focus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-06-19 14:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 45
Words: 76,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15511599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hertz/pseuds/Hertz
Summary: B-52 realises Brownie hascat earsnow.Deadly indeed, since now his mind can'twork.





	1. Pleasant Purr-prise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny thing: I actually don't ship BB-52. This fic, however, is my way of thinking this ship through and testing how it could possibly come to be, and how their relationship would function. If you're along with me on the journey, hey and thank you! :D

B-52 had not been prepared for this.

His first and only thought upon the long trek back to the restaurant had been to wash all the grease off his mechanical limbs and wings, which ached and throbbed with every step. 

Everything went by in a daze - Black Tea and Milk’s idle chatter, Bamboo Rice’s pets skittering all over and being a nuisance. B-52 remained silent, even as he cursed out the fallen angels in his mind with every step.

The blond had entered the restaurant, sighing and sinking into a seat alone from the rest of his teammates, when he heard steady footsteps approach and a familiar “Welcome back, B-52.”

He had turned around then, the easy greeting familiar on his tongue, only for him to discover that his companion had _cat ears_ on his head.

Cute, fluffy little black ears that seemed to be twitching curiously at him.

Oh, right.

“Br-Brownie,” B-52 stuttered out, which was absolutely ridiculous, because B-52 did _not_ stutter and oh _god_ Brownie was wearing a cute, frilly maid’s _dress_. He tried not to let his eyes wander too far, but he could tell from Brownie’s slight step backwards that he’d let it fester for too long.

“Ah, yes. Master Attendant got me this… outfit today.” Brownie’s dark skin seemed flusher than usual. He refused to meet the blond’s eyes, looking down at the black and white ruffles of his skirt while standing stiffly. “I don't understand how this will help me perform my duties better, but if they ask it of me, I’ll do it.”

“Yes. I. I, uh…” _What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck -_ Still reeling from the surprise, B-52 willed the flush in his cheeks to be banished forever as soon as he noticed that Brownie’s cute little cat ears were _drooping_ , as if he were a real cat.

Brownie tugged at his red tie, blue eyes flitting back and forth. “I understand it's sudden,” he finally settled on saying. His ears flicked.

B-52 forced his palms to steady and for him to gulp down a large amount of air before he managed to work up the courage to take a few steps forward and say, “I think you look great.”

 _Great isn't what I wanted to say,_ he thought, but for now it was good enough. Brownie’s ears flicked, and B-52 swore he could see a hint of a smile on the stoic boy’s face.

“I'm glad you think so,” Brownie said, a current of warmth in his voice. He took B-52 by the arm as he always did, polite but friendly. Maybe Brownie said something about looking out for himself more, or about taking care about his mechanical parts, but B-52 seemed stuck in his little world where the only thing that existed was how _cute_ his partner was.

 _Slam._ The door sent B-52 back into reality. He looked around, realising he was in his room and sadly enough, with no Brownie.

Slowly, he sunk into his warm, soft, inviting bed. His back still ached, but it'd faded to a dull throb. The sheets were already folded and washed by you-know-who. B-52 traced their texture for a little while, his heartbeat stilling to a healthier tempo.

He grabbed a pillow and closed his eyes, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How does this work? I dunno, but Brownie's cat ears move with him in his chibi form and its cute


	2. Clerical Error

Brownie closed the door gently, taking care not to make a sound as he left. 

Logically, he knew nothing really had changed in terms of his footwear, but he still found himself stopping to tug at his dark stockings. The dress fluttered around him and brushed against them. He stared at his outfit a moment longer, a sudden pang of fear stabbing at him when he remembered B-52’s reaction.

Brownie had felt so embarrassed, being asked to wear… _this_ all of a sudden. He wasn't one to deny his Master Attendant, but neither could he refute the fact that all day long he had huddled to himself, being less enthusiastic and more subdued. Even Napoleon Cake had realised Brownie wasn't up for much conversation today and had promptly left him alone.

 _B-52’s coming back soon,_ he had thought then. Brownie couldn't figure it out, but the instant that thought surfaced in his mind, he had felt overwhelming nausea. Even now, he stood with a hand bracing against his chest and the rest of him leaning on the wall for support.

Brownie was unsure if he could face B-52 again without wanting to hide in the nearest corner.

_Maybe he was just -_

“There you are!” A hand slapped Brownie’s shoulder. Only years of teaching himself restraint preventing him from crying out. Instead, he bit his lip before turning around to face the other food souls.

“Hello,” he said uncertainly, looking between the smirking duo. Unconsciously, he shrank back. His ears folded down, brushing against the tips of his dark hair. “Chocolate, Coffee,” he added. His polite demeanor wasn't masking the wariness of his tone at all.

“Don't look so scared, my dear,” Chocolate replied with a wink. He had taken his hat off and was twirling it in his hands, a gleam of interest in his blue eyes. 

“The _sparks_ were so bright, we could see them illuminate even the deepest depths of the abyss,” Coffee added with a similar mischievous smile on his face. “And we’ve come to investigate.”

Brownie kept silent, his heart pounding. He reached for the gun behind his back, only to remember that he had put it away for fear of scaring customers. It acted as a constant comfort to him, however, the weight and feel of it. 

_These… these two, I can’t!_

After some meticulous calculations, Brownie finally decided to reply with the extremely wise, “I’m sorry, what?”

Chocolate was close to him now, his hands on his arms (that were bare, something Brownie was still unused to) and lips near his ear. Brownie shuddered, but didn’t pull away when Chocolate whispered, “That was quite a show you put on today.”

“Could you… explain?”

“Well. That _dress_ sure was the highlight of our customers’ day.” Coffee’s eyes twinkled. He too, was getting all up in Brownie’s personal space. He felt his ears flick in irritation, but made sure his face remained carefully blank.

“And someone else, as well.” Still smirking, Chocolate started to scratch Brownie behind his feline ears. 

_This… feels nice._ At once, Brownie felt a little more relaxed. He leaned into the dark man’s touch, closing his eyes. Only to snap them open when his mind fully absorbed Chocolate’s words.

“I… w-what? I, I…” he stammered, feeling something heat him from the inside out. “That is, I mean to say, I -”

“Tell me.” Chocolate released Brownie from his hold to tilt his chin upwards, their faces close. “What language of love does he speak?”

Brownie forcibly wrenched himself from Chocolate. “What? What?!” Brownie couldn’t even remember the last time he felt so out of control, so frustrated, his breaths quick and shallow and his skin feeling hot and tingly all over and, and… _I’m… flustered._

Brownie stepped back, cleared his throat, and obviously avoiding their gaze, he replied, “I… I’m not sure if B-52… liked it. Maybe he was… just trying to make me feel better.” Brownie squirmed as he recalled his friend’s extremely delayed response. “I mean he… I’m not sure.”

There was a pause.

Chocolate and Coffee burst into laughter.

Confused, frustrated, and more than a little anxious to get back on track, Brownie left the two older food souls doubling over and holding onto each other for support.

“He thinks… he thinks he doesn't like it!” was the last he heard Coffee gasp out before Brownie opened the door to the restaurant, the noise drowning out the rest of the duo’s cacophonous cackling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didnt originally plan to make this a multi chaptered fic, but... things happen. Oops.


	3. Earning Restaurant Tips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really surprised at the attention this fic got! Glad to know there's others out there in the dark ;D Thank you all for your support!

Brownie spent the rest of the day tidying food stores, washing the dishes, serving customers and trying not to fluster at some of their coos (some of them being from familiar faces from around the restaurant), anything to distract himself from the insane situation he had found himself in. All he wanted to do was to serve his Master Attendant and then probably polish his gun some more.

 _Did Master Attendant give me this outfit knowing what it would cause?_ Shaking his head, Brownie returned to stacking up the wooden bowls in the cabinet. It kept him busy, and he felt useful. Being useful was good. Being useful meant less time to ponder the strange stirrings in his heart and whatever had gotten into the older food souls today.

Brownie placed the bowls neatly inside the cabinet, closed the door, opened it again and placed the smallest bowl at the top of the tower.

Brownie shut the door again and resisted collapsing against it. _I’m getting careless,_ he concluded as his brain wandered to the extremely important questions of _Where’s B-52? What’s he doing?_ scrolling through his mind again.

With a shake of his head, Brownie continued on his menial tasks, grabbing the soap and detergent and methodologically scrubbing at grease and more grease.

Busy was good. Busy meant not having to think about this until later.

_He’s probably resting. Bother him later._

.

“Get the fuck out,” B-52 said flatly.

“Aww, but -”

B-52 pointed at the door with his robotic arm. “Get. Out.”

“Awwww,” Chocolate whined dramatically, except he was Chocolate and even that childish line had a _breathy_ air to it. The innocent light blue of his eyes seemed ill-fitted compared to the smirk he wore. B-52 for his part did not appreciate being looked at like a piece of meat while he was supposed to be resting on his bed and Chocolate was doing god knows what on his knees and -

B-52’s hidden eye twitched. His robotic fist clenched as he released a very annoyed sigh. He didn't have time for a stupidly annoying fancy flirty piece of crap right now, but Chocolate just wouldn't _leave_. 

“Listen, I don't know why the fuck you're here but my wings feel like they’re gonna rip my back off -”

“It's about your beloved Brownie.”

B-52 covered his face with his scarf then. It was a vain hope that Chocolate couldn't pick up on the red on his face - that damn creep had x-ray eyes. He grinned and leaned in close, oblivious to B-52’s one-eyed glare.

“I'll give you a tip. Scratch his ears,” Chocolate purred seductively.

B-52 felt like all his engines were overheating as he sprang up, gripped Chocolate’s shirt collar in his hand and shoved him out the door. He scowled and made sure to lock it, double lock it, and triple check to make sure.

“And another thing!” Chocolate called outside, voice slightly muffled. B-52 gritted his teeth, kicking the door-stopper into its frame harshly. Each kick sent a loud slam echoing down the hallway. He didn't really care as long as that god-awful Chocolate didn't come near him _ever_ again.

_Damn him._

Finally he stopped, bracing his entire weight against the door. B-52 scowled as the dark-skinned man started his yapping again. He really never did shut up.

“I’d suggest speaking to Brownie about your… _true feelings._ ”

“I can't even _see_ you and I feel molested!” B-52 yelled back, his face burning - or maybe that was his real arm starting to ache from gripping the handle too hard. “Fuck off!”

A low chuckle. “If it is your heart’s desire,” was the smooth reply. B-52 didn't relax until he heard Chocolate keep to his word. The blond sighed, collapsing against the door and hugging his knees.

“God,” he breathed, pressing a hand to his temple.

_I’ll go for repairs later._

For now, however, B-52 had other matters to worry about.


	4. Not Part of the Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the Chinese wiki, Brownie’s favourite food seems to be the ‘green’ variant of minestrone, so I made it that instead. Normal minestrone is pasta or rice in thick soup, but it doesn't seem to be the case in the game based on the ingredients.

“Brownie, how’s your first day being a café maid?” 

Brownie’s ears shot up hurriedly as he turned to look at Master Attendant (which was something else he was unused to). They were carrying a dish, placing it on the table that Brownie was cleaning the surface of. Curious, the brunet crept closer, his mouth watering as soon as he smelt that familiar aroma.

They laughed and pet him on the head, making Brownie realise that his ears had been twitching eagerly. Flushing, his blue gaze darted back and forth between Master Attendant and the table. He hated - no, not _hated_ , that was a strong word - immensely _disliked_ the fact that his newfound feline characteristics gave him away so easily.

_I will have to put in more effort, then._

“I put some seasoning in the minestrone to make it extra fresh,” they said. “Enjoy.”

Brownie rubbed his gloved hands nervously. “I… Master Attendant, food souls don't need to eat. I suggest you save your ingredients for your customers instead.”

Their eyes twinkled. “You've worked hard.”

“Well… alright.” Brownie quietly pulled out a chair. Still conscious of Master Attendant’s eyes on him, he reached over gingerly for a spoon. Even now, Brownie refused to project a sloppy image. He sat up straight, stopping himself from jiggling his legs impatiently as he waited for the heat to cool.

“Brownie,” Master Attendant said, tone less humorous now, “How was your day? I know your outfit will take some getting used to.”

Brownie paused. “I feel like everyone’s reacting strangely to me,” he said quietly. “I’ve gotten a lot more attention, but it’s not a matter worth worrying about, Master Attendant. I haven't gotten any trouble.”

 _Or… have I, really?_ the brunet wondered, thinking back to the strange occurrences he had seen today.

Not made privy to Brownie’s thoughts, Master Attendant brightened up again. “Ah, I see! So my plan worked!”

“Your… plan?”

“I heard maid cafés were really popular lately, and so were butler cafés, and you told me you wanted to be a butler! So, I decided: why choose?”

Brownie opened his mouth, found he was so appalled he had nothing to say, and snapped his eyes back down to the fresh minestrone. Then he blinked as a finger was pressed to his lips. Looking up, he found Master Attendant’s serious gaze trained on him.

“But listen, Brownie, you don't need to wear a dress if you're uncomfortable. I'm really sorry for not noticing till now. If you want your old clothes back, feel free to change.” With a nod towards his quarters, Master Attendant strode away.

As Brownie registered the fading _clack-clack_ of their footsteps, he realised he was alone with his thoughts now. Which was… not good. Brownie sighed, tapping his fingers with a steady beat as he reflected on everything that had gone down today.

 _Chocolate, Coffee, they… laughed._ Brownie stared outside at the window, where the sunset turned the sky to fire. Shame. Embarrassment.

_And B-52, he…_

Brownie gulped down the minestrone, tasteless and bland on his tongue. With a hand to his mouth, Brownie fled the scene of the restaurant, welcoming and cozy but a little too impersonal for his taste right now. 

Brownie gasped as he all but threw open the door of his quarters and pushed it back. He hadn't encountered anyone on his mad dash back, which was great, because now his face was flushing and he was really glad anyone hadn't seen that. 

_Butlers walk with grace and poise,_ he chided himself as he slowly removed his gloves, then his collar and finally the rest of it. _Butlers don't run down hallways like animals,_ Brownie thought, frowning as he adjusted the apron tied around his waist. He sighed, clenching and unclenching his fists. It was a little joy, but he relished the familiar feel of his short white gloves.

Looking in the corner, he realised that Master Attendant had taken the liberty to supply him with a new gun. He hummed, picking up the slender thing, looking at it and turning it over with his hands. Brownie debated it for a while before picking it up and posing as if he were about to shoot at a fallen angel.

It felt lighter, longer. Brownie eyed his usual choice of weapon sitting in the corner. He wondered if this replacement was equally as powerful as it. Functional, even - maybe Master Attendant just thought that a smaller, thinner gun fit better with his new clothes. Brownie grimaced. His new clothes.

They weren't that bad, actually. He just didn't want all of this attention from the others. Maybe they would get over it in time. For now, though, Brownie would appreciate not wanting to die inside every time he thought of his blond partner.

_B-52!_

Brownie straightened his hat and dusted himself off one more time before he eagerly, but composedly, left his room to seek B-52 out.

(Still though, something kept him looking back. His gun was placed properly, his maid uniform was folded neatly, so… what was it?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me going all 'hmMmmm okay but how does a aesthetic change in a mobile game work in terms of the lore of a moBILE GAME'
> 
> I'm basing the MA off their personality in the game, btw


	5. Here, Kitty, Kitty

B-52 sat in the ice arena, gritting his teeth as he performed the usual required maintenance on his metal parts. They had suffered some damage today, being blasted by the sheer power of four different fallen angels. There was only so much even he, a fighting machine, could handle.

No, he wasn't just a fighting machine. Even so, he hated being here, doing this, hated being reminded him of what he was, all clockwork and metal and no heart and soul -

_Stop it. You know you're real._

Even then, B-52 didn't really believe himself, and with good reason (at least in his opinion) - Bamboo's pets were skittering all over the ice, gray blobs of fur leaping onto him and gnawing his mechanical joints. The blond uttered an irritated growl, rubbing his forehead in frustration.

“Can you tell these fu… _stupid_ mice to go away?” 

“Ah, right, right! Sorry!” The young man’s green eyes glowed eagerly. He fixed his headband, sticking his tongue out. “They're rats, but anyway - come here! Big Ah, Little Ah!”

Chittering, one of the furry gray animals obeyed and slid closer to the green-haired man, but the other twitched its ears and scampered outside into the corridor.

“Big Ah!!” Green whizzed past B-52 as Bamboo attempted a cartoonish maneuver that he had probably seen in a magazine. He went by, bracing all of his weight on his left leg. Of course, all he managed to accomplish was spiral out of control, slamming into the wall almost a dozen different times. B-52 winced in sympathy.

“Ow!” Bamboo cried, rubbing his head. Long green hair spilled over his eyes.

“Oh no. I'm quite sorry, are you alright?”

That voice sent a sudden claw gripping around B-52’s chest, icier than even his current surroundings. He gulped, and slowly, slowly, raised his head.

 _Oh. He's wearing his usual stuff again._ On one hand, B-52 was relieved he could finally talk to his partner without having his mind freeze over, but on the other, he felt a strange tingling of regret.

“Yeah! I'm fine! But I gotta go!” Bamboo scrambled out the arena, all long arms and legs. After tripping over himself for the umpteenth time, he finally stood up and ran. B-52 could hear the pattering of his footsteps and a “BIIIG AAHHHH! COME BAAAACK!!”

Brownie stifled a giggle, raising a hand to his mouth, but B-52 could still tell he was amused from the way his shoulders shook. It was a rare thing to poke holes in Brownie’s carefully crafted exterior, and B-52 appreciated any of those moments he got to savour. 

Unfortunately, Brownie being cute seemed to have the side effect of pushing all of his self-control and logical reasoning away. Maybe that was why B-52 stepped forward and instead of greeting the brunet like a normal person, said “Your outfit, you… you changed.” 

Really, it was a miracle that he hadn't tripped and fallen on his face like Bamboo already had.

 _Damn it!_ B-52 cursed himself out as Brownie’s eyes widened for a moment before he ducked his head, self-consciously pulling at the pastel ribbon near his neck.

“Ah, well, I was under the impression that others... didn't like it much. I’ve changed back into my old clothes. For… for now, I mean,” Brownie hastily added, biting his lip and rubbing his hands together behind his back, all very un-Brownie-like things that made B-52 worry.

However, because the ‘B’ in B-52 clearly did not stand for ‘brain’, he instead blurted out, “But… your ears?”

Brownie paused in his anxious antics and stood up rigidly. “My ears?”

“Your ears,” B-52 echoed, gesturing toward the top of his own head for good measure.

Brownie’s eyebrows shot up, and so did his adorable fluffy black cat ears. He raised one gloved hand to pull his hat down, feeling them for himself. His blue eyes widened. “Oh.” 

B-52 watched as Brownie fiddled with his hat, trying to get it to cover both of his ears. Finally, he concluded that it just wasn't big enough. Embarrassed, he placed his hands behind his back, gripping his hat and staring at the ground. His ears fluttered and twitched.

“I'm sorry, it...it slipped my mind, and...”

“Are you okay?” B-52 finally asked. “Brownie, you’re really nervous. What happened? Did anyone make fun of you?” He clenched his mechanical fist, glaring daggers at it, as though it were his victim. “Tell me.”

“Oh. No, no. I-it's quite alright,” Brownie stuttered, and that was the last straw for B-52, because he knew Brownie. The brunet prided himself on being calm and collected, the perfect image of a butler he wished to curate. That was why B-52 felt completely justified in grabbing Brownie’s shoulders and growling, “ _Who_ messed with you?” while his anger burned like it was the fuel for his engines.

Brownie gulped, feebly using his hat as a shield between them, ears pointed back. B-52 backed off, though his rage was still visible in his glare. He didn't care who it was - if they dared to even _touch_ Brownie -

“...I suppose it could have been attributed to you,” Brownie replied hesitantly, readjusting his hat so it sat on the left side of his head, covering one of his ears. “Oh no, no, you didn't do anything that harsh,” Brownie hurriedly assured B-52 as he stared back, a wave of guilt crashing over him.

“Then… what did I?”

Brownie looked conflicted, which was a bad thing, because Brownie never looked visibly conflicted. B-52 opened and closed his mouth, wanting to say something but not knowing how. In the back of his mind, he knew what the brunet was going to say. Crap, he had been really dumb. He'd punch himself later to make up for it.

B-52 interrupted Brownie’s “I appreciate you sparing my feelings, but -” with “I really do think you look great that way, really!”

A pause as they stared at each other. B-52 realised he was breathing hard, and his entire being was flushed with heat in the _ice arena_. Brownie’s ears flicked nervously. It looked like B-52 wasn't the only one having problems believing himself today.

He’d just have to prove it, then. Go in, all out, just like in a battle. 

“Can I touch?” B-52 asked quietly, his hands outstretched and hovering near Brownie’s feline ears. The brunet’s lips quivered before he gave a small nod. Gingerly, the blond removed Brownie’s hat, setting it beside them. They set cross-legged on the ice, which was good since B-52 wasn't sure if he would collapse on the ground from pure cuteness.

This wasn't like him at all, but B-52 couldn't help but smile as he took Chocolate’s advice, scratching Brownie behind the ears as though he were a real cat. He was _immensely_ glad that the annoying man wasn't here right about now. It was just him and his partner and Brownie’s black ears were soft and fluffy to the touch. 

B-52 wondered if he could just stay here and pet him forever. Probably not, because he just _had_ to realise how close they were all of a sudden, having self-consciousness and a strange happiness prickle along his spine. Also probably yes because Brownie’s eyes were closed in contentment and there was a familiar rumbling sound coming from him, and _what_?

Gulping down the sudden lump in his throat, B-52 croaked, “Brownie, are you… purring?”

Sky blue eyes opened wide. “I mean, I, uh…” he coughed. “Well. I suppose I am,” he might have said. Unfortunately, B-52 was right in the middle of a mental meltdown, attempting to preserve what was left of his dignity by absolutely not blushing up a storm. 

“Looks like you’ve spent too long in here. Let me help you out,” Brownie said worriedly, notifying B-52 he had failed. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to relish in Brownie’s familiar touch as he led him outside by the hand.

“Do you require my help to get back to your quarters?”

“I’m fine,” B-52 said automatically, every word feeling frozen on his tongue, his mind going _He’s so cute so caring oh my god I, I’m so -_

Brownie gave a slight shake of his head. “Look at you, you can barely walk.” Like a tutting mother, B-52 found himself being pushed by the smaller male all the way down the wooden corridors and into his room. 

Brownie hesitated before giving B-52 a short, shy, genuine smile. “Thank you.” Gently, the butler shut the door. “Goodnight,” he called softly before walking away.

B-52 must have remained frozen in his position for days. Finally, with a blank expression on his face, B-52 jumped into his bed, resisting the urge to roll around and make a mess of himself and the bed. Still, his heart was probably going a hundred million times faster than that goofball Bamboo Rice On Ice and Brownie was so cute and his skin was tingling and -

B-52 settled for sighing, draping his mechanical arm over the bed and feeling completely useless. For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd pay to see Bamboo Rice On Ice tbh


	6. Waking Up Right

B-52 felt like he was still floating on fluffy clouds as he blearily opened his eyes. With a soft sigh, he groaned and rolled over on his back, facing the door of his room. Blinking, he noticed that there seemed to be someone else. Someone dark and smelling oh so delicious, with blue eyes that shone in the morning light streaming through the curtains.

“Good morning, Brownie,” he said tiredly, sidling closer to the elusive figure. He sighed and wrapped his arms around the soft, warm body of the other food soul.

“Oh my, you'd better not let him see this, my dear.”

B-52’s eyes shot open, and then he was on his feet screaming bloody curses at the damn fool - _Chocolate_ , who stood grinning and completely unfazed by the murderous intent in the blond’s exposed blue eye. Despite the fact that his hat had been blown a few meters away now.

Finally, panting and coughing, B-52 continued to glare as Chocolate chuckled. “Well, well. Looks like _someone_ had a little too much last night.”

“Just go away,” B-52 mumbled, throat sore and aching and the entire rest of his body burning in shame. How could he not have recognised Chocolate? Chocolate was _nothing_ like Brownie. Chocolate was tall and annoying and a creep and Brownie… _wasn't_. He wouldn't deny though, that they did look rather similar. What a pity that his half-awake consciousness hadn't grasped any of the major differences.

“I came to check on you,” Chocolate replied, which would have been all well and good, except he said it so sexually B-52 felt like claws were raking down his back. “You didn't turn up for breakfast, and Brownie informed us you were… _out of commission_.”

B-52 groaned and buried his face into his plain white pillow. “What, and you thought _you_ were the best pick?”

“I just wanted to know if my techniques worked, so I offered to go,” Chocolate said with a wink. “How was it? Your first _rendezvous_? It's rather interesting, isn't it? That Brownie was the only one who knew what had happened to you.”

“I don't have to tell you anything,” B-52 mumbled, even as his ears lit up and his eye refused to make contact with Chocolate’s. Thanks to the bastard, thoughts of the previous day went running through his mind, first the cat ears, then the maid dress, and then he had gotten to touch them and _god_. B-52 found himself wanting to curl up on his side.

“I don't have any troublesome things to do today, right?” B-52 dared to venture. Ordinarily, he might have protested against it, but today… he might not be able to function at all, actually. Better to be a useless pile of metallic parts in the restaurant rather than in battle. He felt like he should _do_ something, but Brownie had apparently rendered him completely dumbstruck.

“Well. No.” Chocolate grinned. “You should have heard the rumors flying around the restaurant.”

With a sudden chill sweeping through his entire being, B-52 paled and asked, “...rumors?” 

Chocolate heaved an overdramatic sigh, not yet wiping the smirk off his lips. “I'm just saying. It's not everyday you see fighting machine B-52 miss the call to battle.” Then his smile fell.

B-52 barely realised the growl was coming from him before he was face-to-face with Chocolate, his fist grabbing the fabric at Chocolate’s chest. “Don't. _Don't call me that_ ,” he said coldly, his narrowed eye like flames of ice. 

He released him, and Chocolate scrambled to regain his balance. 

“I'm sorry,” he muttered quietly, gaze solemn. “It just slipped out.”

B-52 didn't reply, having turned his back on the dark man. He heard Chocolate leave quietly, tiptoeing as if afraid that a single noise would set him off. He let out a sigh, then gritting his teeth, punched his pillow across the room with his robotic arm.

_I’m not even half a food soul. What makes me think I'm real?_

Falling back in bed, B-52 sighed and let melancholy take over once again.

 _What do they really see me as? All of them?_ And then… _What about Brownie?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey help i think this thing also became a character and world thingy oh no
> 
> Send help it's spreading aAaaAa


	7. Semblance of a Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess spoilers for B-52's side story?

After he haphazardly put his clothes on, his trousers and white shirt, B-52 strode through the corridor purposefully. Anyone who stopped to ask him if he was fine got a curt reply.

As he neared the restaurant, his nose twitched. Though breakfast was unnecessary for food souls like him, Master Attendant often insisted in cooking for everyone to share, in order to strengthen their bonds over food. At least, that was the reason they gave; B-52 suspected that they simply liked watching the food souls’ expressions of delight.

B-52 turned sharply to the left, exiting the inner compounds of their restaurant-inn-combo and heading out to the practice range. The blond cracked his knuckles, holding both of his hands together and examining them, comparing them, metal versus flesh.

_Humans are so strange._

Twirling his cane, B-52 half-heartedly sent flames towards his target, a random tree. Being magic, of course, the fire didn't do anything but light up his surroundings briefly before fading away. B-52 just stared before slowly raising his metallic arm.

_If I don't use this anymore, it’ll stop working. What do I do then?_

He hesitated a moment longer before he hurled even stronger flames at the tree, forming a vortex that swallowed it whole before disappearing. The leaves rustled gently in the wind, light dappling over the green.

 _Master Attendant does things because they want to. What about me, then?_ With disgust bubbling in his throat, B-52 recalled the time when he had just _stood_ there, unblinking, awaiting instructions to kill, never thinking for himself, never feeling anything, never feeling pain.

 _I accomplished so many missions, so many tasks… I caused so much suffering._ B-52 sat down shakily, cane falling to the floor. He picked it up and examined it, deep it in thought. The countless bloodshed, the screams and cries. Because he had been nothing but a machine.

But in the end when it mattered, he hadn't killed _him_ , had he?

He had turned on him then, the food soul he had formerly meekly followed, carrying out his every order. B-52 could have killed Spaghetti, but he hadn't. That dream he had that night had been too realistic, had held him back. If he closed his eyes, he could still picture the little girl he had saved, who had reappeared in his dream.

 _Big brother, you can't feel pain. You're not a human like me._ These were the words that had impacted him so, led to him contemplating the true meaning of his existence as a food soul with metallic upgrades fused to his body.

Of course, he had gotten stabbed and left to die for his trouble, so there was that. 

Maybe he shouldn't have spared Spaghetti’s life, but… somehow, it felt wrong to kill him in cold blood after what he had discovered. He couldn't deal the final blow despite having done so hundreds of times before. B-52 felt bile rise in his throat, the bitterness and anger and shame.

The little girl most likely had passed away with the seasons, but now he wondered what she thought of him again. 

It didn't matter. He had killed her family. B-52's anger grew until he had to restrain himself from punching a wall.

_It's because of him. Fuck that bastard. Fuck him to hell._

B-52 picked up his cane and swung it idly with one hand. _But then again, I wouldn't have met Brownie,_ he thought to himself fondly, the anger dissolving. _I guess there’s something good in all of that after all._

Brownie, the first - person, food soul, what did it matter? - the first someone who had been alive, who B-52 had seen right after his rebirth...

The wind ruffled B-52's hair.

_I want to... feel more... feelings of being alive._

That's what he had said to Brownie then, right?

Even now, he was still a little conflicted. Who was he, really? Had he accomplished his mission? His goal?

And what of Brownie? Would he want to even... consider being with him in any way, if he was like this? Brownie definitely knew all about his nefarious past - he'd been one of the two that had arrived to save him from death, after all. But that gave B-52 pause. Would Brownie think he was unsuitable? Then he cut himself off and shook his head. Be with Brownie? In what way? In any way? Wait, what was he even thinking about right now?

 _Never mind that. Maybe. Not now._ B-52 forcefully shelved his thoughts for later and escaped back into the restaurant, welcoming the quiet, relaxing ambience. The doorbell rang as he stepped inside and his thoughts washed away like mist in the rain. B-52 tried to ignore the frightened looks of the customers, keeping to the walls as he searched out his Master Attendant. He didn't really need anything, but he wanted some solid ground in his life right now. No more thinking. That was troublesome and unneeded, serving only to distract himself from more important things at hand.

B-52 could be useful at other things as well, or so help him.

“Master Attendant?”

They startled a bit, chef’s hat bobbing as they spun around. “B-52. Are you feeling better?”

He stumbled, mouth suddenly dry. “I guess so,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Ah, right. Be careful that you don't stay in there for so long the next time.” Master Attendant placed their hands against B-52’s forehead, brushing his bangs aside. He realised that Master Attendant didn't avoid the strap above the eye obscured by a bronze lens, and somehow, the little gesture warmed his heart just the tiniest bit.

“Did you need something? Are you still sick?”

“...nothing, Master Attendant. I feel much better now.” B-52 turned to leave, acknowledging their request to take better care of himself with a curt nod. 

Maybe, maybe, he already knew the answer somewhere deep in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this is based off info i got from the Chinese wikia. Ill just have to wait and see when Brownie's story will be released...
> 
> Edit: Brownie's story has been released and edits have been made!


	8. Brownie Thinks Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some mild spoilers again i guess?

“Target confirmed in attack range!”

Brownie cocked his gun, sending a blazing beam of light the fallen angel’s way. It’s eyes went black before releasing a screen of fury, dissipating as it hit the ground.

Brownie stood there for a moments longer, staring at the place where it stood just a little while prior. _It._ To think this fallen angel had once been a food soul just like him. A cold wind seemed to blow, and he shivered like a leaf in the breeze.

Brownie banished any and all foreboding thoughts from his mind as he followed the rest of his team on their way back to the restaurant. The brunet repeatedly drew and sheathed his gun, appreciating the familiar weight on his back, but never daring to be swept off guard. He grit his teeth, bracing himself for the long trek past uneven ground and rocky landscapes.

“You're hurt,” came the usual monotone. What made Brownie turn in interest was the slightest worry sprinkled over the flatness. Milk cradled Black Tea’s arm in her pale hands, turning it over as she inspected the brunette’s wound. Brownie had always admired the older food soul, her perseverance and her diligence in achieving her goals, but it seemed that Milk wasn't too happy with this aspect of her personality this time.

“I'm fine,” Black Tea insisted, but Milk didn't look convinced.

Milk’s other hand hovered over the wound, where fresh blood was still oozing from the wound. “Let me help you.” Milk blinked, expression never faltering as she squeezed the skin around the wound, letting blood drip out a little before she worked her healing hands on the unsightly gash.

Black Tea remained still throughout the whole procedure, blinking. “You didn't have to do that. I know you're exhausted,” she murmured as she and Milk dragged themselves forward to catch up with the others. 

“If I can help you, I'm happy. So please, let me help you.”

“Well, I… I appreciate it.”

“When we get back, I’ll have to look you all over to make sure.”

Brownie looked at the two women, who now both had red dusting their pale cheeks. “I've never seen Mistress Black Tea smile before,” he said to himself quietly.

“And I’ve never seen you with cat ears before.” Brownie startled as Milk spoke up. “What's the special occasion?”

“He had them yesterday as well,” Black Tea informed her.

Brownie faltered, embarrassment at having been overheard and mortification at his current pseudo-feline status battling it out in his mind. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean -”

“Oh, no, no. I know you didn't mean anything by it,” Black Tea said kindly. Ahead, the remaining two members of their team, Bamboo Rice and Tom Yum looked over briefly in curiosity, before they went back to eagerly yelling about lemons, for a reason Brownie couldn't fathom.

Black Tea sidestepped a rock in their path neatly before she reached out a hand to him. “Can I?”

Brownie’s ears flicked instinctively as he remembered the last person to be this close to him - B-52. He had been so gentle then, something Brownie didn't often see. 

“Go ahead,” he said, suddenly struck by the feeling of his heart thumping out of control.

Soft fingers thread through his dark hair and touched his black cat ears gently. Brownie stopped, staying still and allowing Black Tea to satisfy her curiosity. Milk came closer as well, standing on the tips of her toes and reaching up on Brownie’s other side.

Trying to combat the urge to release a rumble from his chest, Brownie flicked an ear at the other food souls. It felt strange to be so poorly exercising his usual restraint. How unprofessional. _It’ll take some getting used to,_ he told himself, _But it won't be hard._ At least, he hoped so.

“They look troublesome,” Milk said as she fell into step with him, her face still betraying nothing as she looked up at Brownie’s head. “Can you take them off? My horns aren't easy to maintain, so maybe it's the same for you.”

“I… well, they enable me to hear better, so I haven't tried.” It wasn't exactly a lie. With his heightened senses, he had been able to pick up on a sneaky fallen creeping up behind him even during the chaos of battle. Of course, he wasn't telling _anyone_ that the real reason had more to do with the little smile on B-52’s face that made his insides feel like they had melted. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to see it again.

Brownie received a shock for the second time that day as soon as he heard “Who's smiling now?” He whipped his head to the side, where Black Tea was giving him an amused grin of her own. His ears pricked up as Brownie touched one gloved hand to the edge of his lips.

How… unfitting. This wasn't like him at all.

Milk looked between both of her companions, before turning to Black Tea and saying, “I think he understands.” with a knowing look in her usually blank gaze.

_Understand? Understand what?_

Brownie dared not put distance between them in case it was perceived as rude, but luckily for him, they didn't try to engage him in conversation after that, seeming to sense he needed time to think.

Think about... _things_.

That maybe… he was fond of his partner the same way Black Tea and Milk were of each other.


	9. Brownie Thinks WAY Too Much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me going around and finally assigning some cheesy chapter names to this lot. :,D

Upon arriving back at the restaurant, Brownie hurriedly dusted his boots off before heading back to his quarters. He strapped his gun off, placing it to the side of his room. He looked at the smaller, sleeker, shinier gun he had left behind, his gaze shifting over to his maid dress.

_I wonder…_

Agitated, Brownie began to pace around his meticulously decorated room - plain, and not an item out of place, which made his pacing monumentally easier, which was also the only thing on his frazzled mind right about now.

He needed to talk to someone, but who? Black Tea and Milk were probably out of the question. Brownie felt certain he had bothered them a little too much today, and they probably wouldn't welcome random questions about their relationship. They seemed rather private, after all, and Brownie knew he had some intimate details he’d rather keep secret himself.

And of course, his ever super happy-go-lucky friend Napoleon Cake... most likely wasn't a good option. At all. Brownie was fond of the brunet, but he was certain that listening to Napoleon of all food souls would most likely escalate the situation into a total disaster.

But then, who else could he turn to for advice in this situation? Forcing himself to stop pacing and to restart his mind, Brownie yelled at himself to think logically. _Logically,_ like a calm and collected butler _ought_ to be doing, even though Brownie knew he had been doing poorly at his job these last couple of days. 

_It’s because of B-52, isn't it?_ Brownie stopped, noticing that his pacing had mussed up the brown floral-print carpet. Mortified, he looked around, as if afraid that someone would come bursting in and witness his failure. Quickly, he straightened it out again.

What kind of butler didn't have control over his emotions? He really ought to pull himself together, and quick, in order to make up for everything. And if getting advice was the key to pulling it off...

Perhaps Black Tea and Milk weren't the best choices after all, since they had absolutely no idea what had transpired between him and B-52. Now then, who had bore personal witness to his entire situation, new outfit and all?

Well, there was B-52 himself, but… his train of thought was derailed as he thought of his smile, the softness of his touch, the gentleness of his gaze...

 _Stop. Stop getting sidetracked._ Brownie shook his head, feeling his cat ears twitch instinctively and his heart pound. _Why am I like this?_ he wondered, wiping his sweaty palms on the fabric tied neatly around his waist.

Abandoning those thoughts, they instead shifted to another blond - Coffee. Brownie dismissed him as well. He was certain Coffee had his uses, and he didn't mind the man, but right now he wasn't sure that listening to talk about the ‘devil’s gift’ and the ‘abyss’ was the solution he needed.

That left only one other.

 _Something something language of love,_ Brownie thought, then immediately felt grateful for the fact that his blushes weren't visible.

 _What? Who? Really?_ Chocolate _?_

Brownie sighed and sat down heavily on his neatly-folded bed, pressing his face into his hands. _Do I_ really _need to go to_ him _?_ He could already hear the older food soul’s teasing words running through his mind, and none of them were exactly suitable for the workplace. That wasn't even taking into account the fact that Chocolate would probably try to flirt with him instead of helping him out, if his last encounter with him was any indication.

 _Last resort,_ he thought, still feeling the heat in his cheeks. _Chocolate is an absolute last resort._

But then, if Brownie couldn't turn to anyone around him, then what could he do?

Brownie stood back up, walking over to his little gun collection. Suddenly, he was overcome with the childish want to hug his weapon close. Instead, he sighed and trailed his fingers over the familiar metallic feel of it.

 _My emotions are all out of whack. I need to regain some semblance of control,_ Brownie told himself. That was what butlers did, didn't they? He needed to be professional. Professional. So even if he couldn't find any real people to tell him what to do, he supposed he could always try a second option - because, in his mind, anything was better than _Chocolate_.

 _Humans. They read and write books, don't they?_ Brownie suddenly thought, ears pricking up at the revelation. That was it! He’d hate to distract Master Attendant from their work with his little problems, so he could try to seek advice from books first. Besides, he figured, books were much less likely to burst out laughing like Coffee and Chocolate had that day. The memory made him want to hide under his blankets to take cover.

 _Now that’s a plan,_ Brownie thought, feeling embarrassingly proud at the fact that he could even come up with one in his current state. He ignored his shaking hands. _Now I need to locate the target and execute the plan. That's it. That's simple._

Brownie just hoped that Coffee and Chocolate wouldn't happen in on him reading such material. Still feeling flushed, he hated to imagine the kind of constant teasing they’d pile onto him in the next few days. Or years. 

Or _decades_.

And so, as quietly as a cat, Brownie creaked open the door of his room. Ears swivelling, he made a calm, but fast-paced walk to where he knew Master Attendant kept a library to occupy the food souls. He could only hope the books held something useful for him.


	10. Mission Aborted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go on. Guess what book Brownie is reading >:3

Brownie picked up one of the books nearest to the door of the library. The relaxing dark browns and greens of the spacious room led to him feeling a little more at ease. Squinting his eyes, Brownie held the book further to one of the only light sources in the dim room, a window from which light filtered through.

He knew of this particular novel, something he had heard some of the younger food souls talk about sometimes. Apparently, it was about a tale of adventure and romance, which was probably a long shot compared to what Brownie actually needed, but he figured that it might be a good launching point for his search. At the least, it seemed entertaining enough.

Brownie read approximately one chapter in disinterest, skimming the long chunks of prose about the heroine’s appearance and family. Then something caught his attention - apparently the love interest had entered the scene. Brownie read a few more words before he couldn't help but glance around briefly to make sure no one was witnessing him reading such a thing.

_Oh my god, do humans think this way? This is an... embarrassingly vivid description._

Nevertheless, Brownie carried on browsing. He had just formed his impressions about the man depicted in the text - whose manner reminded him an awful lot of Red Wine - when something else caught his attention.

“Meow!”

A chill ran down Brownie’s spine. The cat’s ginger tail threaded around Brownie’s feet in a friendly fashion, but it didn't stop his legs from suddenly shaking.

_There’s someone here._

Cursing himself for his ineptitude, Brownie turned to find Sanma Shioyaki nestled away, resting his legs in a wooden armchair all the way at the other end of the library, piping hot tea by his side. Steam billowed out in clouds as he blew on it.

“Ah, a visitor. Mango seems to like you. What are you reading, Brownie?” Sanma asked in a conversational tone, though it failed to prevent the fear that had washed over him.

_Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic!_

Brownie tried to make sure the pages went without tear as he tried desperately to shield the novel from Sanma’s watchful eyes. “It's… an instruction manual about…” _What does he know about me again?!_ “...being a butler.”

“Master Attendant doesn't have a book like that.” Sanma blinked, closing his own book and standing up. Several of his cats padded along next to him, meowing eagerly and looking up to him for attention. “And to the best of my knowledge, they haven't added anything new to their collection,” he added, getting onto his knees and petting a tuxedo along its back.

 _Fuck,_ Brownie cursed uncharacteristically in his mind. How could he have been caught off guard like this? Such a simple, yet unforeseen circumstance -

Sanma looked up at him curiously. “Why are you trying to hide it? Come on, let me see.” 

“...it's embarrassing,” Brownie finally muttered, his gaze trained solely on the ground. He really needed to shape back up. Fancy overlooking such a risk. Of course he wouldn't have noticed Sanma if he didn't want to be seen, hidden behind bookshelves like he had been. And besides, he was a master of stealth -

“Oh.” The ginger continued to circle Brownie’s ankles, purring softly, helping him relieve some of the tension in his back and shoulders. Bending down, Sanma picked it up in his arms, letting it rub its soft head against his hands. “Well, but am I right that it has something to do with B-52?”

Only his years and years of experience prevented Brownie from tripping over the cat who was _still_ there. He did, however, knock over the nearest stack of books with his elbow. “You aren’t - I’m not - I… I’m -” he stammered as he willed his shaking hands to perform the excruciatingly difficult task of tidying up five books. He finished, ignored the fact that the books still looked a little messy, heaved a sigh and finally asked, “What… do you mean?” in a surprisingly complete sentence.

Sanma put the tuxedo back down before raising his index finger to his lips in a curious manner. “Well, if I recall correctly, there were food souls at the table this morning who thought that you and B-52 had a lot of fun last night. Everyone’s talking about you guys now.”

“...fun?”

“Oh, yeah. They were placing bets on who was better in bed and all that,” Sanma continued, looking apologetic when he noticed Brownie looked close to hyperventilating. 

There seemed to be a ringing noise in Brownie’s ears. Bed _?! There’s no way. There’s no way…_ His face was probably bleached an unearthly white colour now. _Then… wouldn't that mean that everyone I’ve seen today… thought me some kind of_ degenerate _?_ Out of shame, he felt his feline ears droop as he wondered just _what_ Black Tea and Master Attendant thought of him now.

What about B-52? Would he be embarrassed as well? Repulsed, even? What if after this, he no longer wanted anything to do with Brownie? He didn't think he could bear it if that happened. Suddenly, he felt overcome by a wave of nausea. Brownie wondered if food souls could have heart attacks.

“I'm sorry, it's not true, is it?” Sanma took a few steps closer, putting his hands on Brownie’s shoulders, snapping him out of the panic he was currently working himself into. “Tell you what - I’ll go out and tell everyone for you.”

“I mean, I. Yeah. But… but…” Brownie made a helpless gesture in the air. “I appreciate it, I really do, b-but… you know, they’d ask how you knew, and then… the entire situation would snowball, and… I-I don't think I could drag you into this entire mess. I'm really sorry for the trouble, Sanma.”

Sanma regarded him closely. “I can sense it affects you,” he said after a bit of thought. “Well, I’ll tell my friends, at least. They’re reasonable. I’ll just say that I ran into you in the hallway and you were surprised at the nonsense everyone was spouting. Nothing about this book business. I won't pry any further, alright? I think you need to sit down for a while.”

“Thank you.” Brownie wanted to collapse in relief, but he settled for sighing instead. He must not compromise restraint, he told himself, even in the most extreme of situations. Honestly, it was amazing that he’d been under the most stress so far not from fighting all those fallen angels in battle, but from stupid old rumors. About him and B-52. In _that way_. Brownie wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or to cry.

“Is there anything I could do to repay you?” he asked meekly instead.

“Repay?” Sanma blinked. “That isn't necessary, Brownie. I know how awful rumors can get. Besides, I shouldn't have pushed you.”

“It's quite alright, but I'm ashamed to be such a bother. I’m supposed to be the one serving others, but… it seems that there have been several obstacles in my path recently.” Brownie looked down at the ginger kitty sitting on its hind legs, looking up at him with clear green eyes. Its ears twitched, and unconsciously, Brownie felt his own feline ears respond in kind.

“You know, you don't always have to serve others. You need to think of yourself as well, slow down a little.” When Brownie’s eyes returned to Sanma, the young man was holding a calico in his arms, teasing and tickling its belly as it mewed in delight. “Perhaps next time, you could join me to view the autumn leaves. After all,” Sanma smiled, “cats love following me.”

Brownie briefly registered a hand threading through his hair. When he turned around, rubbing at that specific spot, Sanma was gone. Only the bobbing of a white tail out of sight held any indication he had been here.

Still looking around hurriedly, Brownie shelved the novel he had found, making sure that it looked untouched. He walked over to the armchair, noticing that Sanma had left his empty teacup unattended. 

_I’ll clear this for him._


	11. The Big Brawl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyy food fantasy is now a canon tag! Good job, guys!

Brownie walked through the hallway toward the restaurant with his head down low and teacup balancing on its saucer. He couldn't bear to look anyone in the eye right around now. He couldn't help but picture the horrendous images that were probably flashing through everyone’s minds all day. If some of the younger food souls had been exposed to such content, he’d probably owe them his life in battle twice over.

_How embarrassing._

So engrossed was he in not making any contact whatsoever that he almost didn’t notice someone in front of him. At least, not until he glimpsed the brown boots adorned with a metallic polish.

“Brownie?”

Brownie froze. His hands felt slippery. Willing himself not to drop Sanma’s teacup, he looked up slowly. “B-52. I. Hello.”

His face remaining carefully blank, Brownie quickly scanned his partner. The first thing he noticed wa B-52 didn't look disgusted, his eyebrow instead quirked in curiosity. He was facing Brownie’s direction, so he must have just left the kitchen. His stance was relaxed, metallic cane at his side. Therefore, Brownie concluded he hadn't yet noticed the gossip surrounding them, possibly because B-52 had been busy all day. 

Brownie felt the sudden urge to look around to spot any spies who could possibly use this conversation as extremely out-of-context evidence.

B-52 blinked, before he narrowed his eyes. “Brownie, what’s wrong?”

Brownie forced himself not to huddle the teacup closer to his chest, even as he knew he was just uttering a lie. “No? Nothing. There’s nothing.” Best not to arouse his suspicions even further.

Unconvinced, B-52 pointed to his head. “You know, you can bluff all you like, but your ears are drooping.”

Brownie froze as he suddenly registered his pulse beating quicker. His traitorous feline ears flicked. He really, really needed to learn how to control those pesky things, and fast. Now, however, how was he to take the fall?

Brownie opened his mouth, looking from the teacup to B-52’s concerned face before closing it again. Stood there for a few moments longer. “This is not a discussion for polite company,” he finally said.

B-52 frowned, refusing to budge. “What?”

“Yeah, wait. Follow me.” Brownie kept to the walls as he forced himself to walk at a normal pace and _absolutely_ not bolt. B-52 was by his side, flanking him on his right, no further questions asked for now. And for some reason, this sent a different kind of chill up Brownie’s spine. This time, he welcomed it.

Brownie entered the kitchen’s pantry and placed the teacup in the large metal tray labelled ‘to wash’. Turning, he motioned for B-52 to follow him all the way back to his room. Brownie’s blue eyes darted around out of suspicion before he pulled B-52 in and closed the door softly.

“I’ve… received word,” Brownie began carefully, a stirring against his chest, “that… some food souls appear to be under the impression that we are… intimately involved.”

B-52 blinked, his mouth gaping open as a full on blush spread across his cheeks. “Wait. What. What?!”

It was as if B-52’s engines had went haywire as he spluttered and gasped and paused and almost accidentally set Brownie himself aflame. ‘I’, ‘you’ and ‘what’ seemed to be the only things the blond was capable of saying. Finally, bracing himself against the wall for support, B-52 looked up at Brownie, his one eye all but hidden underneath the tousled mess. “What kind of… intimacy?”

Brownie stared at his partner. “Sex,” he said bluntly. There was no other way around it.

B-52 did nothing but stare back.

“It's unfortunate,” the brunet said, hesitating. “I agree.”

B-52 paused, his expression suddenly blank, which had Brownie almost worried. Then his gaze hardened and Brownie did find himself worrying. 

“ _Chocolate,_ ” B-52 hissed, whipping out his cane with full force.

“Pardon?”

Not seeming to hear him, B-52 burst outside and took off running down the hallway. Knowing exactly where he was going, Brownie followed him, if only to prevent the likely case of Chocolate’s corpse littering the ground.

When Brownie finally caught up, he noticed B-52 had come to a halt in front of Chocolate’s door. Quietly, he raised his hand and knocked once. The aura around him was stifling. Brownie ignored the sudden, hysterical urge to laugh.

“Ah, have you come to visit my room _alone_?” The door flew open, and Chocolate’s grinning face quickly became a panicked one as he noticed an extremely murderous B-52 standing right on his candy-themed doormat.

“Is this about the fighting machine thing? I’m really, awfully sorry -”

“Damn right!” B-52 growled, and it sounded almost _inhuman_. “First you break into my room, then you piss me off, and now this?”

“I’m sorry! I didn't mean -” Chocolate broke off. “Hey, wait. What?”

“You know what I mean,” he hissed. B-52 had edged Chocolate into a wall now, glaring him down even though he was shorter than the darker man. Brownie remained standing with his hands behind his back. He’d intervene later if his partner really did try to roast Chocolate alive, but for now he’d stay out of it.

Chocolate’s head cocked curiously. “...no, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Really?” B-52 said scornfully. “Didn’t you say something this morning about rumors? You know? About me? About -” B-52 jerked his head towards where Brownie was still lingering in the doorway. “ _Us_?”

“Oh. _That_.” Chocolate shook his head. “I’m afraid I had nothing to do with it.”

B-52 bristled, his suspicious one-eyed gaze remaining, and admittedly, Brownie had a hard time believing this as well. “What? Of course it’s you! Who else would do something so… so stupid, so -”

“And I’m telling you it wasn't me. I’d never do something as tasteless as that.” Chocolate sniffed dismissively. B-52 regarded him for a few second longer before abruptly releasing him, lowering his cane and releasing his breath in one big sigh. 

“If it wasn't you,” he began, temper obviously fraying at the edges, “then who the fuck -”

“Miso Soup. Steak. Spicy Gluten,” Chocolate listed, his eyebrows raised as he gave his visitors a very pointed, wounded look. “And those are just the few that were _very_ vocally interested. I’m willing to bet there are a few... closet perverts as well. I’m flattered, but I’m not behind every crime, you know.”

B-52 had stopped spewing literal sparks and embers. His anger dissipated briefly before it returned with a vengeance. “ _Thank you_ ,” he hissed, blue eyes blazing with a look Brownie knew all too well. 

B-52 almost knocked Brownie off his feet as he went past, barking out the names of the unlucky food souls as he went barging past. Brownie watched him go before realising he was alone with Chocolate now. _Chocolate._ The one food soul he had wanted to avoid at the start. 

But if he hadn't succumbed to such… _trite temptations_...

What was he even to say in this situation? Hesitantly, Brownie reached up, his hand hovering in the air before he went through with his plan to awkwardly pat Chocolate on the shoulder. 

“Well. I must say, I’m very surprised, but I’m grateful.”

“Anytime.” Chocolate winked, his smile and charm back in full force. Brownie looked at him uncertainly. Could he really teach him anything?

“But you didn't intervene,” Brownie suddenly realised.

Chocolate blinked innocently. “No.”

“And why’s that?”

Chocolate grinned devilishly. “It amused me,” he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Brownie fought not to roll his eyes. 

_Right. He’s still Chocolate, no matter what._ Of course. How could he even have thought otherwise?

Their pleasant conversation was interrupted by what sounded like a bunch of food souls ganging up on a dine and dash customer; only, it was B-52 ganging up one-to-three, which in Brownie’s opinion, was totally fine and dandy for this special occasion. At least, for a few moments more.

“What?! You bastard!”

“What the hell?!”

“You fucking idiots! What the actual fuck?!”

Brownie winced as he recognised all four voices raised in anger echoing down the hallway. As always, his sense of duty outweighed his desire for revenge. “It's been lovely, but I’d better go. Murder needs to be kept at an absolute minimum.” He turned on the heel of his boots, about to walk away when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Make a list. I know you’re good at that,” he heard Chocolate’s quiet voice utter. “Do you want to be with him? Consider his type. What does he like? What does he like _to do_? But most importantly, you need to think of the hardships you may face. Ask yourself if in the end, you’re compatible.”

Just as suddenly, Chocolate withdrew, leaving Brownie almost stumbling forward. He turned around to find the taller man with his usual smile in place, rose clasped between his teeth. “Come visit sometime soon. _Alone_ ,” he added with a wink. Then Brownie found himself left outside in the cold. For a while, he just stood there, his mind running all algorithms and formulas to figure out _what_ had just transpired between them.

“Fucking hell! My nose!”

Brownie snapped to attention, dashing down the hallway like any reasonable butler wouldn't be caught dead doing. 

Then again, Brownie wondered if reasonable butlers too had to deal with developing love interests, constant food fights, and overly enthusiastic matchmaking gurus.

One thing was for sure - Brownie had much on his plate.


	12. Fate-tality

Pain blossomed throughout his veins as Brownie pressed B-52’s shoulder carefully, where it met the metal of his fake arm. He felt plastered with sweat and heat all over. Still panting, he nursed his arm and glared at the three food souls he had beaten up just prior, who were being tended to be Master Attendant and Milk. On any other day in any other circumstance, B-52 would have appreciated being given attention by his partner more, but right now he was currently radiating pure annoyance as he stared the battered food souls down.

“Anything swollen, tender, bruised or broken?” Brownie asked patiently.

Slowly, B-52 found the heat of his anger simmering down as Brownie’s soothing presence calmed him. “...yeah,” he murmured, gesturing to his arm. He let Brownie pick it up and examine it. Though the brunet’s hands were gloved, he felt his skin tingle at the touch.

“We can't have you guys at odds with each other,” Master Attendant sighed, dabbing a warm wet cloth along Spicy Gluten’s bruised forearm. “Would any of you care to explain what’s going on?”

Gluten rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and forcing Master Attendant away. With a dainty little shake of her head, she huffed, “Well. It’s not our fault this brute came out of nowhere!”

His calm forgotten, B-52 glared back. “Brute?! Who was the one talking crap about me and Brownie behind our backs?”

The other redhead, Steak raised his arms in a gesture of peace, though he still looked visibly ticked off. “Hey, if you had stopped roasting the crap out of me and let me _explain_ , I didn't actually think you guys were doing shit! It was just a joke! I didn't know you were gonna take it the wrong way,” Steak said, unexpectedly pouting childishly. “Besides, Red Wine started it!”

“Actually, no.” Gluten stared Miso Soup down, who broke into a sweat and cowered under her gaze. “I believe this little _monk_ did. I bet he deserves a little punishment, doesn't he?”

“H-h-hey, wait a sec -”

“Right, and you don't?” Steak snapped. “Don’t pretend you’re free of blame either!”

Gluten stopped smirking for a second to put on a wounded look. “You really wouldn't think to hit a woman, would you?”

“I’ve done it and I’ll do it again,” B-52 stated bluntly. He felt Brownie clutch at his shoulders in warning. He heaved a large sigh and forced himself to relax, slouching down further in the wooden seat and allowing Brownie to knead the tension out of his muscles.

“It’s alright now,” he heard Brownie murmur, almost in a motherly way. “The fight’s over. I’ll help you back to your room later.”

“Thank you.” B-52 reached up and without thinking, took Brownie’s hand in his. Instantly, his heart raced as he calculated the various implications of this gesture - would Brownie take it in a friendly fashion, or in a… more romantic point of view? Was that even the message he wanted to send? To B-52’s immense relief, however, Brownie didn't fling his hand away. Instead, he hesitated for a moment, as if in surprise, before the brunet twined his fingers with his; something more intimate than B-52 had honestly been expecting. 

_What does this mean?_ And thus, B-52’s mind went wild calculating all the possible different implications of this - Brownie liked him, maybe Brownie liked him but in a friendly, brotherly way, Brownie was simply the polite sort, no but this was a completely different level of hand holding than strictly necessary -

_If only this was as easy as adding up the engine fuel I need._

In the time B-52 had zoned out being a total loser, Master Attendant had finished tending to the other food soul’s magical burns. With a sigh, they shook their head as they dismissed Tiramisu. “Guys, please behave. I’ve just summoned a new food soul today, and the first thing she saw was you guys in a huge fight. Please try not to give such a bad first impression next time, alright? How are new food souls I summon going to respect any of you if you appear to be against the very concept of teamwork?”

B-52 lowered his head, stung. Master Attendant hadn't raised their voice at all, but the disappointment in their tone was enough for him to regret his actions, even if Gluten was _still_ huffing and puffing and complaining about him.

Steak was the one who seemed the most remorseful for his actions, fiddling with his sword nervously. “We unexpectedly gave you a bad reputation as well, Master Attendant. I’m very sorry. I’ll gladly explain the situation to her. Uh, what’s her name?”

“Her name is Foie Gras,” Master Attendant replied. “She’s a little cold, though. I think it might be better for someone who didn’t participate to go. Someone she witnessed trying to stop you guys, may I add. Brownie,” they called. “If you’re able, could you please go check on her?” 

“Of course, Master Attendant. I shall see to it straight away.”

“Thank you, Brownie. She’s blonde with blue eyes, with a icy white gown.”

“Understood. Thank you, Master Attendant. I’ll take my leave now.”

B-52 couldn't help but notice the way Brownie’s cat ears perked up adorably when Master Attendant called his name, and for yet another moment he was distracted. He briefly registered the ghost of Brownie’s touch along his arm, a whispered, “I’m sorry,” and then he was gone.

Master Attendant looked the rest of their rowdy food souls over. “The rest of you, go get some rest until your injuries heal. Please try to keep your anger in check next time.” Their eyes glanced at B-52 before they nodded and walked back to the kitchen.

Gluten strode confidently by with her head held high, a stark contrast to Miso who scurried away as soon as he was able to. Steak, however, paused as he walked by B-52. The blond looked the redhead in the eye for a moment, before he gave Steak a nod of acknowledgement.

_I’ll forgive you._

Steak’s eyes darted in the direction Brownie had went. With a nod of his own, Steak left. 

B-52 walked in the direction of his own room, feeling an ache pooling in his legs which he hadn’t picked up on earlier. Grimacing, he thought to himself, _I wish Brownie were here. He’d make it better. He makes everything better._ B-52 paused at the thought, before he pushed his room door open and sunk gratefully on the plain white bed. It was messy and undone, but still soft and inviting.

_I really need to think less about Brownie._

.

_I really need to think more about B-52,_ Brownie thought, considering Chocolate’s words carefully in his mind. _Make a list, make a list, make a list._

He knew a place where quiet food souls who had been newly summoned tended to go - the ledge just outside the doors of the restaurant, before they found their new favourite retreats. There were barely any places of peace in this busy, bustling building after all, and he himself could attest to winding up here on occasion. 

Brownie reached in destination, and sure enough, there was a beautiful young woman there, the likes of which he hadn’t seen before. He approached her, calling out softly, “Excuse me!”

Foie turned to him, her icy blue eyes striking, her indifference even more so. 

Brownie swallowed before he began his usual speech. “Hello, you must be Mistress Foie Gras. I am Brownie, and I’d be glad to serve you in any way I can. Welcome. As for today’s incident, Master Attendant would just like to let you know they’re very apologetic about it. They had nothing to do with this fight, and they didn’t even know how or why it occurred -”

“It must have been fate,” she said airily, speaking with a faint, distant tone. “If it happened, I trust there was nothing Master Attendant could have done. I understand. It’s not their fault.”

“Pardon? Fate?”

Foie nodded. Her little movements were graceful, but quaint. “Everything happens for a reason,” she said quietly, her index finger stroking her scepter. “It must have been fate that brought you here, as well. I am glad to have met you too, Brownie.”

Foie's strange spiel had Brownie momentarily confused, but he nodded back all the same. “Of course. If you have any questions about your new home, I will do my best to assist you.”

“Ah.” Foie turned away from him, looking into the distant horizon; the setting sun turned the sky to flame. Brownie paused to admire the scenic picture a moment longer before he headed back inside.

Of course, his thoughts drifted back fo B-52, as his thoughts tended to do every so often nowadays.

_...everything happens for a reason, huh?_


	13. Overanalysing Everything

It was late. He had to get up early tomorrow to help Master Attendant. Of course, all this meant was Brownie was staring at his darkened ceiling and thinking through all that had happened that day, rifting through the various tidbits of information he had picked up. Oh, and B-52 was in there, too.

It wasn't as if Brownie hadn't thought about B-52 in a certain light beforehand, but tonight was the night where he finally admitted to himself he was probably positively smitten, seeing as mere thoughts were able to keep him awake. (And then Brownie promptly frowned as he realised the unintentional implications of that sentence.)

Brownie shifted on his side, jostling his feet against the blankets. He felt warm. He also felt strangely light and happy all over.

Finally, with a defeated sigh, Brownie turned his lamp on, watching it flicker to life and swamp his room with an orange glow. Getting up slowly, he blinked the fog in his eyes away before he went to his drawer, getting out a few pieces of paper and his pen. For some reason, trepidation instantly overcame him. Brownie looked around a couple times before he bit the bullet and began writing.

_What is B-52 like?_

Brownie looked over the blank piece. Could he really just regurgitate everything? Because as far as he knew, he understood the most about what B-52 was like, but at the same time, it was almost embarrassing how little time he needed to think of everything.

 _A little emotional sometimes, but tries to hide it. I know he’s still hurting in some ways. He’s protective as well. Also dislikes troublesome things, or so he says. He seems happy to do favours for me if I ask._ Then Brownie realised what he had written. He shook his head to clear the oncoming blush and continued his musing.

Right. Focus on productive things. Well, as productive as waxing poetic about B-52 late at night could be.

 _I suppose he can be a bit too impulsive sometimes. He doesn't always say what’s on his mind._ Brownie nodded once, punctuating the sentence with an excessively large period. He remembered all those times the blond had gone charging into battle without a second thought. Steak, apparently, had been the victim of such wrath.

 _And for some reason, he doesn't like himself,_ Brownie thought. He didn't like it. He didn't like that B-52 felt so self-conscious every time he was assigned to a battling unit. He’d hide it behind his stoicism, but Brownie knew from the way he had tried to hide his left arm behind his back that B-52 still wasn't completely over what had happened in his past.

Brownie didn't particularly understand, but for now, he just wanted to let B-52 know he was loved and appreciated.

Flaws. Insecurities. Right. Everyone had them. Chocolate had said something about compatibility. That meant he had to analyse them. Brownie pushed the thought of B-52’s away for the moment in favour of thinking about his own. He almost caught himself nibbling on his pen before he stopped himself, creating a small column for himself.

Brownie penned down his thoughts as they came to him, his embarrassment now gone. If he simply approached all of this as a logical step, he could get this done and over with, and then maybe he could get back to sleep?

 _Sanma said I need to stop thinking of others every single time. That goes with what else I’ve been told by a lot of people. To relax a little._

Brownie didn't really feel comfortable listing any of his strengths. Humblebragging. Was that the term? Brownie shook his head and skipped ahead to the next section.

Chocolate had said, “What does he like?” Brownie wasn't sure whether that referred to personality or planned activities, however, so he just created headers for both.

 _B-52 prefers company with people that have ‘good sense’. Probably means not people like Chocolate._ Suddenly, Brownie realised that he had no clue if B-52 preferred introverts or extroverts - well, there was himself, the obvious, as well as Vodka, who Brownie hadn't seen in a quarter of a century. 

The bright, sweet, loud Napoleon Cake was a mutual friend, however, and for some reason, Brownie found himself suddenly feeling unsure. What if B-52 preferred others like Napoleon? Maybe someone not like himself, maybe B-52 preferred someone else who could brighten up his day -

 _Stop, stop._ Brownie clenched his pen tighter. _No. I’ll… focus on other things. For now. Figure it out later._ He dare not admit to himself that tiptoeing around B-52 might not be the best solution, given how often he seemed to give himself away, but how exactly was he going to go about this? A blurted out _So I was wondering if you liked me as more than a friend?_ Was that not social suicide?

Brownie had always prided himself on staying on top of things, on managing everything efficiently and effectively, but it was now painfully obvious that this was an area he had absolutely no idea how to work through.

In any case though, B-52 liked things that made him seem almost human. _Apart from battle moves, he often spends time practicing stunts on that motorcycle of his._

That gave Brownie an idea. Outlining a new section of the paper, he wrote _Ideas_.

_I should ask Master Attendant what humans do. How humans enjoy spending time with each other. I’d bet he’d like that, and perhaps he’d feel more at ease with himself._

Brownie finished, holding up the slightly scribbled-on paper to the faint flame of his lamp. Alright. Pretty good for a sleep deprived amateur.

Now all he had to do was bury this list in the deepest, darkest depths of his drawer and pray that nobody ever found his embarrassing thoughts.

 _Especially_ not B-52. Brownie would probably _die_ then.

After Brownie did just that, with jittery hands, he turned his lamp off. Instantly, darkness filled the room once again. Brownie rubbed at his eyes, suddenly feeling fatigue come over him. Yes. This was good. Maybe he could finally get to sleep this time round; making notes had really done the trick.

Maybe he’d add more in the morning, but for now, Brownie clambered into bed and closed his eyes.

If everything happened for a reason, he sure hoped fate would smile on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brownie, you forgetting something?


	14. Your Handy Dandy Manual

B-52 heard footsteps approach and groaned in exhaustion. “Chocolate!” he called, irritated. “If it’s you again, I’ll -”

“Bonjour!” was the only warning B-52 got before the door slammed open.

“Napoleon,” he sighed, a smile playing along his lips, only to be lost when he realised the finely-dressed food soul had brought an extra visitor with him. 

Sanma bowed down low, white strands spilling over his shoulders. “My apologies. I had several worries, and Napoleon insisted I come to talk to you ‘Right. This. Second.’ Before I knew it, it was too late. I hope I haven't disturbed your morning rest.”

“You haven't,” B-52 said, as he rolled over and fell disgracefully out of bed. Napoleon uttered a little ‘oof’ under his breath, only to cheer as soon as B-52 righted himself.

“We heard about the awesome battle yesterday!” Napoleon gleefully announced, shoving several egg tarts into his mouth as he spoke. B-52 had almost been surprised when he had neglected to wave his signature flag earlier on, but now he could see why - Napoleon was handling a peculiarly large plate with one hand, stacked to the brim with _pastel de nata_.

Sanma had that look on his face where he was obviously disgusted but far too polite to show it. “Ah. Well, as for me, I wanted to come check on your injuries to see if you were feeling better.” A tuxedo curled around his ankles. Sanma reached down, petting its head as it purred audibly.

B-52 glanced at the Japanese food soul suspiciously. Really. Sanma, of all food souls, wanted to check on him? He’d never been particularly close to Sanma. Hell, B-52 didn't even know Sanma realised he had existed till today. 

Maybe he wanted something from him?

However, looking at the quiet dignity Sanma carried himself with, B-52 got the distinct impression that Sanma wasn't the type of person to even consider such an underhanded tactic. Right. He’d hear him out, at least for a while. As such, B-52 crossed his arms, saying, “They’re healing well. Thank you.”

His shoulder connected to the metal still hurt. B-52 rolled his shoulder, wincing as the cogs creaked.

“It was awesome! Did you annihilate them all?” _Chomp._ Gone were half the tarts on the plate. “But that looks like it hurts. Want something sweet?” With a large smile, Napoleon shoved the tower of treats toward B-52. 

The blond looked at it for a few moments before flatly saying, “No.”

Napoleon grinned cheekily. “Brownie made them~”

Even hearing his name sent a lightning bolt through B-52’s system. B-52 found himself stammering before he cleared his throat, and with a monumentally more dignified composure, replied, “I’ll take one then.”

B-52 took the tart nearest to him on the tray. He was pretty sure that Napoleon, the little rascal, had set it aside just for him. In any case, the blond was just grateful for something to chew on - it distracted him from the thoughtful look Sanma was giving him and the uncharacteristically smug smile on Napoleon’s face. As Napoleon assumed a thinking pose, tapping his fingers to his chin, B-52 started gobbling the tart down faster.

It was delicious, B-52 conceded. He had to resist licking the crumbs off his fingers. And the others couldn't seem to resist staring.

“I see. I see.” Napoleon grinned and nodded his head, his signature hat bobbing.

Sanma looked between them, seemingly at a loss of what to do or how to even act appropriately in this situation. The tuxedo nudged against his ankles, its golden eyes closed in bliss. Finally, Sanma asked, “Would you like to learn how to pet a cat?”

B-52 blinked. 

_What._

Sanma repeated his question. Okay, but that didn't even explain anything. What cats? What what? What had this got to do with anything? He knew Napoleon Cake was strange at times - almost all the time - so B-52 didn't even bother. But Sanma? The straight-laced, lightning fast, stoic ninja?

However, it appeared that Sanma was serious in his endeavour, so B-52 shrugged and said, “Why not?” It wasn't like he had anything better to do, now that he was practically confined to his bed and it appeared Brownie was on butler duty once again. Sometimes, he wished they could spend more time together, and not least because he had been thinking about Brownie for a while now.

“Alright. I’ll show you.”

It was strange for Sanma to only be surrounded by one cat. The white-haired man picked the black-and-white tuxedo up with practiced ease before setting it on B-52’s terribly made bed. Before B-52 could even move to protest the cat hair potentially settling all over his mattress (and thus creating more work for Brownie), Sanma interrupted him with, “Now, you see, the first thing you must know is cats love warm, soft, dark places. Not too hot, not too cold.”

“Cats are cute,” Napoleon remarked. He scarfed down the last egg tart. For a second he looked at his plate with an almost baffled expression before he ran outside, singing, “Brownie! I want more sweet foods!”

B-52’s jaw twitched in irritation. Napoleon was nice and all, but B-52 hated what he was pretty sure was exploiting Brownie’s friendship with him for extra… brownie points. Fancy adding to Brownie’s already large workload just like that at a whim.

“Cats can sense your emotions.” B-52 jumped as he found Sanma’s unblinking gray eyes. He hadn't even realised he had been scowling. Gesturing to the tuxedo, who was now lying on it’s back in satisfaction, Sanma said quietly, “If you're angry or frustrated, they’ll avoid you. Cats are very sensitive, so if you're sad, they'll comfort you.”

B-52 blinked. “R-right,” he blustered, and then because just that didn't feel right, added, “Sorry.”

Sanma nodded. “Don't worry. Cats are good life companions if they really love you. Their trust has to be earned, but it’s rewarding. The feeling of being accepted into a cat’s personal appreciation club...” Sanma stroked the cat’s white belly as it closed its eyes. “It’s like none other.”

Curious now, B-52 approached the cat loafing around on his bed. His real hand outstretched, he reached for its belly just like Sanma had. Quick as a flash, it drew away, ears flat against its head. It’s large golden eyes seemed impossibly wide.

“Squid hasn't met you yet,” Sanma explained. “Cats will only let you pet them like me if they’ve known you for a long time and trust you. Here.” Sanma raised B-52’s hand to the cat’s nose. The blond observed it sniffing his fingers for a while, and wondered what his metallic arm would smell like to the kitty. Repulsive? Probably.

Using a gentle hand, Sanma guided B-52’s, showing him how to run the back of it along the cat’s cheeks. B-52 couldn't help but be enthralled by this. Now he knew his hands could do so much more than cause pain and destruction, and watching the tuxedo close its eyes filled him with a strange, thrumming happiness.

“And now you can scratch between or behind the ears,” Sanma explained as he demonstrated. “If you want, you can pet its back and scratch its chin, but the head’s the main part you want to focus on.”

“Ah,” was the only thing B-52 could say. He sat there, kneeling on the mussed up sheets on his bed, watching Sanma watch the cat grab onto his blankets and try to snuggle into them. Before long, the tuxedo had appeared to form a chrysalis, with only the tip of its black cat ears remaining visible.

“I hope you learned something today.”

“I did,” B-52 replied truthfully. “I have no idea why you’re telling me this, but I did. Thank you. It was…” B-52 paused, trying to find the right word. _Enjoyable. Entertaining. No._ “Fun.”

Sanma graced him with a quiet smile. “I see,” he replied. Scooping up the kitty made it look like a black ball of fluffy fur. With a nod, Sanma walked over to the entrance to B-52’s room. “I hope to see your injuries heal soon,” he called, and the kitty answered with a playful meow.

Watching them go, B-52 felt a strange sense of loss. The peace he had felt then wasn't like how he felt around his friends, or at someplace quiet and tranquil. It was a different kind of peace, but he liked it.

Rustling through his drawers, B-52 looked for writing materials. 

_Squid, wasn’t it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find a way to fit Napoleon in before now. I know he and Brownie are good friends, so I'll try to include him as much as possible from now on. (Also, probably going back and editing some lines.)


	15. Napoleon the Enabler

“You know, Brownie, why don't you wear that dress anymore?” Napoleon was leaning over the counter so much that he was pretty much lying down on it, kicking his feet up and down, his eyes lit up in excitement.

Brownie jumped a little at the reminder of that maid outfit even existing. Luckily, he reeled in his instincts enough to not send the mix in the pan splattering all over the counter. 

“I… simply don't wish to wear it.”

“Awww.” Napoleon grinned. “But it's cute! And you look so cute! So why not?”

Brownie wondered why he was spending his break time being questioned by Napoleon so intensely. When he was making more _pastel de nata_ for the finicky feaster to consume, no less. Brownie gave Napoleon a half-hearted scowl, to which Napoleon responded with a cheeky wink.

“Aha. Gotcha~”

Brownie sighed good-naturedly. “These tarts will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Don't try to dodge it, now.” Napoleon leaned so far over the counter that he managed to reach up and give Brownie’s cat ears a flick before he fell over the counter. Wincing, he stood up, rubbing his back, his tongue sticking out as he righted his hat.

Brownie paused in his baking to look Napoleon over. Apart from dust coating his pants, he otherwise appeared fine. “Are you alright?”

“Don't you worry, I’m fine!”

“That’s good.” Brownie turned back around, ready to continue the rest of his baking. He could feel the other male leaning curiously over his shoulder.

“Tee hee, you're like an actual maid!”

“Napoleon!”

“I can't believe I haven't seen it before!”

“ _Napoleon!_ ”

Napoleon grinned even wider, his ruby eyes sparkling. “And you know, I bet B-52 would really appreciate it.”

“I… well… I…” Brownie willed himself not to blush but failed. For a moment, he struggled to come up with a reply, before his thought process kicked in and his heart thumped in excitement.

That was it! He had a plan, now, an actual plan. Never mind that... dress for now, but with it had come a new gun. When B-52's injuries healed, he could ask him to go with him. Alone. 

It was perfectly subtle, and perhaps, could open the gateway into other opportunities... Brownie recalled the brief hand holding situation he had gotten himself into yesterday. Now that he was thinking clearly, the thought lingered that maybe, just maybe B-52 felt the same. 

“Napoleon, have I ever told you how much I love you?” Brownie asked, breaking his formality for just a moment as he prepared the custard.

“I thought you loved him, not me,” Napoleon answered innocently, though his eyes were far less so. 

Brownie placed the bowl away from him as he began to roll the flour. His cheeks were flushed dark as he considered Napoleon’s words. “I’m… in a tough spot right now, Napoleon. I’m not sure what to do, or what to call it, but Chocolate -”

“You went to HIM? No way!”

“I’m aware of how he usually is," Brownie added, still shuddering at the thought of Chocolate's fingers on his chin, "but I think he gave some good advice.”

“What?!” Napoleon’s eyes were wide as he started flailing his arms around. “You mean he… he didn't recommend you to like, crawl into B-52’s bed and pretend to be in heat or something?!”

“No.” Brownie gave Napoleon a strange look. _Never mind Chocolate, I’m concerned about what goes on in_ his _head._ Napoleon, however, didn't seem to notice. Nothing could dampen his cheer, after all.

“In any case, Chocolate told me to consider all options, all variables, and all possible outcomes, and I’m taking him up on that.” Suddenly, there seemed to be a feeling of hope welling up in his chest, though Brownie made himself remain calm on the outside. Maybe the future he wanted with B-52 wasn't just in reach, but probable as well, and that brightened up his morning far more than even Brownie thought possible.

“I was wondering how to best approach this issue, but you’ve given me an idea.”

“O-oh? What is it what is it?!” Napoleon whisper-screamed.

 _He’s really excited about this,_ Brownie thought, amused at the sight of his friend clenching his fists and practically bouncing up and down in his excitement. Brownie separated the flour rolls, nodding over in the direction of his room as he did so.

“Let’s just say, you’re really great at inspiring others.” Brownie smiled briefly. “And I am in your debt.”


	16. Napoleon the Enabler #2

B-52 wasn't at all surprised when Napoleon skipped back into his room, his pale face still alight with glee as he stuffed yet more of those tarts into his mouth. B-52 rolled his eyes as he closed the door that Napoleon had left ajar.

“What brings you back here?” he asked tiredly.

“Weellllll, Brownie agreed to bake some for me, if only I shared them with you!” Napoleon grinned and shoved the plate in B-52’s face. Again. “Sooo, open wide!”

“Br-Brownie said that?” B-52 stammered, and oh. There he was going at it again. Stammering. Because Brownie did that to him. And he didn't really get why it was this way, why he always felt like blushing and stammering and doing all sorts of stupidly inane things around the cute butler - hey, hold up -

“Why are you blushing?” Napoleon asked innocently, as he ate his third(?) tart since stepping into B-52’s room, swinging his legs. B-52 could have sworn the brunet’s smile seemed almost devilish, but then Napoleon had open his mouth to chew and maybe he was just seeing things.

“I don't know,” he replied honestly. “Everyone seems to be yakking on and on about Brownie to me, and it’s confusing.” B-52 sighed, strolling over to sit himself next to Napoleon. He frowned. “Could you not get the crumbs all over the place?”

“Sorry!” _Chomp._ “But like, what’s up with Brownie to you, huh?”

B-52 looked at Napoleon suspiciously. “You know, Sanma just gave me a really weird tutorial, and now you’re trying to analyse me. And you two were talking earlier this morning. What are you up to?”

“Nothing~” Napoleon swallowed the tart, giving B-52 a wink and a finger-gun. Which, for his information, did nothing to dispel the blond’s grievances.

B-52 held his glare for a moment longer before admitting with a sigh, “Actually, I don't know why I blush, either.” 

Besides, even if they were up to something, B-52 couldn't deny he actually needed some form of help... that hopefully didn't include that stupid dumbass Chocolate. Although, Napoleon himself wasn't really a top choice either.

Maybe, whatever Sanma had told him...

“I see, I see.” B-52 almost jolted in surprise as Napoleon put away his plate for now. Surprise turned into irritation as he realised he was balancing the large plate on his clean, freshly-washed sheets. Napoleon’s hands were suddenly on his shoulders though, forcing B-52 to look at him. (He was grateful, however, for the fact that Napoleon didn't treat his mechanical arm any different.)

“Do you _feel_ different around Brownie?” Napoleon asked slowly, intensely, his head leaning so far forward that his hat was practically slipping off.

B-52 met Napoleon’s gaze with a glare before his embarrassment won out and he looked away, flustered. “My brain seems to have a mind of its own now. I keep thinking about… wanting to be close to him, but I’m not sure if I actually want to, and all the signals I give out, I know it’s confusing, and -”

“Woah, woah, woah! You’ve really got it bad!” Napoleon’s ruby eyes twinkled. “I’ve never seen you talk this much in one breath. Relax, take it easy, okay?” Playfully, he slapped B-52’s shoulder, the metal one. “And it’ll all be alright~”

B-52 fell silent. “I mean, I suppose,” he said doubtfully. “I’m just not sure is all. I’ve… never felt this way before. I’ve never felt this out of control before. And I think I need to quit it,” he muttered, glaring at the shut door as if daring Sanma to jump in and say something nonsensical again. As nonsensical he himself was being. Probably.

“You can quit it, or you can embrace it, right?” _Chomp._ “Like these tarts, which by the way, are really great! You sure you don't want one?”

“...no.” B-52 eyed Napoleon with disgrace. “Please stop splattering crumbs all over. Brownie just washed these sheets.”

Napoleon snapped his fingers in B-52’s face. “Ah. You see, you see! You’re doing that thing again.”

B-52 pressed his lips into a thin line, gulping. He could see it now. Napoleon’s grin was anything but innocent. In fact, his eyes seemed to be gleaming unnaturally.

“Alright, but how does our lovely butler make you _feel_?”

“I don't need to tell you anything,” B-52 muttered mutinously.

“Ah, but then you’d never get anything done, am I right?” Napoleon smiled and tapped B-52 on the head twice, which just made him glare at him again. “Alright,” he continued, “so Brownie is like a cake, and you just feel like you need it at all costs, because you’re low on sugar!”

“Oh my god, are you taking this seriously at all?” B-52 snapped, his… well… _everything_ burning up. He didn't appreciate being placed under such scrutiny, thank you very much, especially when he didn't have an adequate explanation for anything happening himself.

“I am,” Napoleon replied. “Super seriously! Don’t worry!” Finally finishing his egg tarts, he set the plate on the floor before he got out his signature flag, waving it and smiling at B-52. He just sighed.

“Look, like, I just don't know why I can't seem to think around him! It’s like I’m not myself. It’s strange and new and I don't like it.” B-52 blushed. “But… I think he’s cute.”

“Ah~” Napoleon nodded far more than was necessary, causing his hat to slip over his eyes. He adjusted it before nodding once again, saying, “I see! What you’ve got here is a Black Tea and Milk situation!”

“...what about them?”

“Well, they like each other in the way you described. What were the human words again… dating?”

“Dating.” B-52 tried it out. “So you mean. Me. Brownie.” Suddenly, he felt like rolling under his bed. “ _Dating?!_ ”

“Um, yeah, duh?” Napoleon said cheerfully, completely disregarding his panicking friend. “Like, you obviously are all the way into him. That’s why you can't think!”

“...so that’s why… I wanted…” _Brownie to take my actions romantically,_ B-52 finished in his thoughts, his everything pulsing. Fuck everything. Everything made way too much sense now. He half-wanted to go back into the foggy, clumsy haze he had felt. Now, eevrything made sense - his overfixation on Brownie's outfits, his actions, and of course, those goddamn ears. He felt like he was going to potentially short-circuit and die.

“That’s all! My tarts are all gone, so au revoir~”

“Hey! Wait!”

Napoleon was gone.

B-52 just stared and stared before he grabbed his pillow and spontaneously screamed into it. But quietly, so no one would think him a troublesome nuisance.

_Oh my god what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck._

.

“So, you did the thing?”

“Of course. I carried it out as you asked me to.”

“Yep, so how are things?”

“Well, popular consensus is: though the rumors have died down for now, it’s undeniable there’s at least something between the two.”

“Well. Duh.”

“And how were things for you?”

“Tee hee. I’ve set the first step into motion. You’re a great help, Mister Cat Person!”

“Well, happy to help, but... weren't you being a little too forward?”

“Trust me, Sanma. B-52 needs forwardness to kick him in his thick skull~”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems writing about Sanma has brought him home to me :D


	17. It's B-52's Turn

B-52 was becoming adept at the art of being utterly, completely useless.

( _Better it happen to him right now rather than in battle, however,_ the rational part of his mind still said.)

 _Napoleon, you damn brat! I hate you!_ B-52 grumbled as he covered his face with his pillow, shutting out everything and anything.

Dating. That was something... humans did. And he and Brownie were most certainly not humans, B-52 possibly even less so, who had spent the better part of his existence hunting and killing others just because, with no objection against it whatsoever…

 _Stop it!_ B-52 punched his pillow half-heartedly. _You have no right to constantly beat yourself up over this! No one even gives a fuck except for you!_ B-52 stopped and rolled onto his side. He hated his wings preventing him from lying down properly. _And I don't get why I keep doing it, either. Do I really have that much of a victim complex?_

The emotions running through him right now were all like a tidal wave, crashing down on him, emotions he couldn't seem to name and sort out amidst the raging sea.

B-52 recalled having this thought before: would Brownie even consider him a suitable… dating partner? It hadn't really made any sense to B-52 back then, and had even surprised him, but he understood it now. He wasn't sure what to make of the fact that he understood it now.

Of course, his time spent as a horrible, terrible fighting machine was shameful, and he longed to sweep every detail of his past under the rug, but it appeared some remnants of it still stayed with him. Like his inability to even understand such emotions, for example. He had needed Napoleon to drag a realisation out of him.

Did any other food soul struggle similarly? 

Somehow, even though he had known Black Tea and Milk had been a couple, and he’d acknowledged it as something that humans usually did, B-52 hadn't _quite_ made the connection that he’d long for such a relationship as well.

But the fact that Black Tea and Milk so far seemed to be happy with each other gave B-52… a warm, summery feeling. That was the best he could describe it as. B-52 rifled through his memory for the closest match. Happiness? No, slightly less passive then that. 

Hope. That was it.

B-52 allowed himself this once to be proud at himself at the stupidly simple task of figuring out what emotions were, which was which, and other such assorted things, because if he hadn't any hope for this, he most likely hadn't any hope for dealing with his - Chocolate’s voice echoed in his head - _true feelings_ for Brownie.

The realisation that Chocolate himself had been trying to hint at it for a while now only served to irritate B-52 further. Now _there_ was an emotion he was familiar with, but B-52 didn't want to just be familiar only with such destructive feelings. B-52 hadn't ever been… dating, before… but common sense told him that such a situation wouldn't exactly be ideal.

 _Alright, alright. And I suppose I’ll have to ask Brownie…_ B-52 hesitated. _Something,_ he quickly corrected, though he didn't know what that something might even be apart from a replacement for the word ‘out’.

Here was the legend B-52. 

In his room being all confused about something as dumb as a crush.

Or whatever the humans called it - infatuation, love, happiness.

B-52 would have laughed at himself if it wasn't for the fact that he was confused and also rather irritated at everything right about now.

 _Well, you wanted to be a human, right? Well, you’ve got your wish._ B-52 sighed. He really wondered how humans dealt with something as suffocating as this. And it wasn't just his emotions alone, either; now B-52 finally had some real context as to why those dumbass rumors had even surfaced in the first place. Goddamnit, did _everyone_ in this entire damn restaurant feel the need to stick their noses into his private business?

Well, but it seemed that Master Attendant hadn't even bothered with them, but - and then B-52’s thought process led him to think about the softness and warmness of Brownie’s hand in his and then that stupidly suffocating feeling was back again, but then B-52 realised that he wouldn't totally exactly really mind drowning in it, because… it felt good?

It felt good.

And Brownie was good. Great, even. Magical. Splendid.

Good lord, B-52 was going to forbid himself from ever _thinking_ ever again if this kept up. Nonetheless, at least he knew why he was thinking the things he did. The only thing was, he was torn between wanting it to stop and never wanting it to stop, and also Brownie - how would Brownie react? Did he even like him that way?

Logically, maybe, but B-52’s mind was twisting everything into fervent denial right about now and so the blond found it fit to simply mash his face into the pillow and hope everything would fucking stop, his head hurt and his bruises hurt and shit.

 _So,_ B-52 thought to himself begrudgingly. He knew anger. He knew sadness. And now, it seemed, several different variations of happiness that seemed only to activate whenever Brownie was around. B-52 didn't really understand what made Brownie so different, but his heart seemed to long to always be beside him out of its own free will. There seemed to be happiness, but this was a rather strange take on it. The tingling sensations he always got, the way his palms secreted sweat and his heart beat faster and he wanted to get closer...

B-52 wasn't stupid, however. He knew fear. Nothing came without drawbacks. And as of now, the thought of even confronting Brownie with his newfound feelings made him want to scurry to Master Attendant’s bathroom and hurl. And _very_ strangely, B-52 as of right now would rather take on a whole pack of fallen angels rather than let Brownie witness him being an embarrassment.

Oh. That was the word. Looked like it was slowly becoming a party in B-52’s mind except only incredibly sleazy individuals had been invited.

B-52 wished he could get up, get out, go practice, go cook, go serve, go do _anything_ to distract himself - but hey wait, Brownie was in the kitchen today and his heart squeezed and oh right, fuck it and everything and everyone. B-52 sighed and squirmed under his blankets.

_Oh, for fuck’s sake, give me a break._


	18. All Wrapped Up

B-52 was woken up from his dozing by several short knocks on the door.

“B-52, I’ve come to visit. I’ve brought refreshments too. Are you well?”

 _Oh my god no it’s Brownie no no no no no -_ And so, B-52 went with the first command his fried brain could map out: hiding under the covers and pretending he was still asleep.

_Oh please no why Brownie I can't deal with this right now -_

“Cocktail B-52?” Brownie called softly, evidently having stepped into his room, and _oh_ , he was using that pseudo-nickname for B-52 that always made him feel rather happy inside.

For now, though, B-52 felt strangely calm and flustered all at once even as he tried to ignore the urge to scream (out of their close proximity or frustration, he didn't know) and curl into a ball on his side.

Because now, for some reason, now that Brownie was this close to him, he found himself weirdly panicking over the fact that Brownie’s eyes were most vivid shade of clear blue or that Brownie’s dark hair framed his adorable face in the most perfect way or that Brownie was so sweet and concerned about him, and this wasn't even part of his job as a butler -

No, maybe panicking wasn't the right word? How about this, then?

_Having a mental meltdown?!_

“B-52, are you alright? Hello?” The blond squeezed his eyes shut. “You didn't answer the door, and I know you aren't asleep. You snore, after all.” B-52 heard a chuckle. “It sounds a little bit like your engines running, did you know that?”

“...I didn't.” Caught, B-52 tossed the blankets over his side. “Brownie, um, hi,” he muttered, feeling the now-acquainted-with burning sensation on his face reappear with a vengeance. _Steady, cocktail B-52, steady. You’ve been friends for ages. There’s nothing to be scared of now._

Actually, there probably was, but whatever.

Brownie’s ears flicked, concerned. “Are you alright?” he asked for probably the millionth time. “Are you too weak to answer the door?”

Steadying himself had returned B-52 to some of his usual snappiness. “Nah. I was just dazed. You woke me up,” B-52 huffed, crossing his arms. He knew that Brownie had been his partner in countless battles by now, but this feeling of not wanting to appear weak to the butler seemed to be something new that came with the territory of… actually liking Brownie in that new fashion. 

B-52 was still having trouble coming to terms with it, but with all of this evidence glaring him in the face, it wasn't very easy to deny anything.

“Thank you for coming to check on me,” B-52 added, his gaze softening. “I… don't know what I’d do without you.”

Brownie’s cat ears drooped slightly as he covered his mouth, embarrassed. “What’s this all of a sudden?” he asked, averting his gaze. It was almost a crime that Brownie had decided to just wear his hat to the center instead of to the side like he used to, since this left both of his adorable fluffy ears on full display. 

B-52 wanted to pet him again, to hear him purr.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted out loud. “I’ve… just been… thinking how long we’ve been partners for, and, uh, you’ve saved my life a ton. So, really.” A nod. “I think I owe you a lot.”

_Especially after what Spaghetti did to me…_

“I… oh, no problem.” Brownie seemed just as flustered as B-52 felt, as he coughed quietly to clear his throat several times. Whatever this meant, B-52 chose not to ponder on it too much, since he’d learned in the past several hours that anything with Brownie slapped on it probably would make him zone out and become incredibly stupid, not necessarily in that order.

Suddenly, Brownie’s ears perked up. “Speaking of battle… Master Attendant seems to have supplied me with a brand new gun to go along with my…” Brownie paused. “My new outfit.”

B-52 tried not to picture Brownie in the maid’s dress. “You mean the -”

“And and I was wondering if you’d like to accompany m-me in testing it out once you're well, only once you’re well of course!” Brownie bit his lip, seemingly to stop himself from rambling any further, which frankly, B-52 found incredibly relatable right about now. Besides, he was finding it hard to refuse when he realised that the sunlight filtering in through the windows tinted Brownie’s hair into a warm, summery shade of brown, and oh, that really was quite pretty.

“Sure,” B-52 said without even realising until he noticed that Brownie looked relieved, and almost even… visibly happy. He wanted to believe it was, in any case. Brownie was adorable when he smiled. He needed to smile more often. 

“Lovely,” said Brownie, gesturing to B-52’s bandaged shoulder. The wraps were beginning to untangle and separate themselves. “I’ve brought a fresh roll of bandages. Come here, let me examine your injuries.”

“Uh, w-well -” B-52 gulped. What. Did this mean he had to get close to Brownie, like, right _now_? When he was still unprepared and also kind of not knowing what to do about his tangled up mess of emotions that had all just kinda suddenly crept up on him and all that? 

B-52 blinked, and in that moment he realised that Brownie already was next to him, gently unwrapping the used bandages from his shoulder. Suddenly, he felt something jab at his heart. He half-wanted to jerk away roughly, but the other half wanted him to stay, to lean into Brownie’s familiar, comforting presence…

“There,” Brownie murmured. “It’s alright. I’ll change them for you now.”

B-52’s thoughts lingered on the way Brownie carefully patched him up, his hand on B-52’s shoulder where it was connected to his mechanical arm. Brownie didn't try to avoid it, like it was nothing, like it was natural, like it didn't bother him, and maybe, just maybe, it didn't, not after all those years, after all. Brownie’s touch sparked something within him, and B-52 found himself needing to gulp the excess of saliva that had built up.

“There.” Brownie patted B-52’s shoulder. “Now that this is settled, how are your bruises?” Turning to face him, there was that slight smile on Brownie’s lips again.

B-52 swallowed. His lips felt dry. “They’re… fine,” he managed to say with a little difficulty.

Brownie nodded. “Of course. Then, I’ll leave you to rest.”

B-52 nodded back, folding his hands across his lap. “Brownie, you really sure about this? Being here… alone, with me? After everything the others said?” he finally asked. As much as he didn't want Brownie to leave, he was confident that the rumors would return with much, much bigger vengeance than before.

“...I am a butler.” One of Brownie’s ears flicked. “I will simply have to put aside my personal feelings on the matter.”

This time, it was guilt that pricked along B-52’s spine. “But…”

“No,” Brownie said gently. “As a butler, it is my duty to serve you. And you got yourself into quite a nasty fight because of me. Please, let me help you,” he pleaded, tone so earnest that B-52 could only utter a ‘yes’ as a response.

“You're not fair,” B-52 grumbled.

“Oh, and how so?” Brownie replied, a rare teasing lilt to his tone.

“You… you’re you!” B-52 grabbed the cane he had left on his nightstand and pointed it at Brownie for added dramatic flair.

This time, Brownie broke into laughter, and the best thing, in B-52’s humble opinion, was that he didn't bother to disguise it when it was just them in this private setting. “So I am,” Brownie answered, his eyes glistening with mirth as he wiped at them with a gloved hand. “Well, goodbye, B-52. I’m sorry, but I need to return to kitchen duties now.”

“Hope I’ll be back in action soon.”

“Indeed.” Brownie paused in the middle of kicking himself out. “Would you like me to bring you some food later on?”

B-52 hated troubling his friend, no, partner, yes, no, uhhh - what _were_ they now? - with such a request, but some selfish part of him wanted Brownie to stay here, with him, forever. “If it’s not too much to ask,” he finally replied, playing idly with the cane in his hands.

“I’m happy to serve. Nothing’s too much to ask. Please don't worry. Let me handle it.” He halted, ears twitching curiously before gracing the blond with another small smile. 

“Have a good nap, B-52.”


	19. Tactical Arrangement

Brownie was almost ashamed to admit that his legs did a little jiggle and his lips couldn't seem to stop being pulled into a smile and his hands kept tapping an unsteady rhythm against his legs as he made his way back to the kitchen. 

“You seem happy!”

With a start, Brownie hurriedly tried to shield the last traces of his smile with both hands as he wiped it off his face. Right. It was work now. Schooling his features back into a neutral expression, Brownie took a deep breath, then nodded at his friend, who seemed to still be stuck to the counter.

“How long have you been there?” Brownie asked as he walked stiffly over to where the trash was. Well, crap. He felt himself burn up in shame with every step, his hands shaking as rolled the used bandages up into a neat roll and threw them away.

Napoleon waved a hand about. “Since you’ve been gone,” he said nonchalantly. “I’ve been helping you serve dishes, so don't worry!”

“Serve… dishes…?” Brownie’s face instantly paled. “Huh? Wait, I -” Glancing up at the clock confirmed his fears.

_1.13 p.m._

Brownie squeezed his eyes shut. 

Damn it. 

This meant that he was exactly twenty-eight minutes late.

Brownie was never, _ever_ late. 

He didn't know whether to be just plain horrified or to be horrified with extra seasoning.

Brownie pressed a firm hand to his forehead, massaging it as he tried to keep calm, ignoring the panic fraying away at his edges. Crap, crap. This was the how many-th time he’d screwed up in the past week now? Master Attendant probably thought him an incredibly incapable food soul unable to take on anything he was asked to, and Brownie couldn't exactly offer up any evidence to the contrary with his bad track record as of right now.

“Today’s not a very busy day.” Napoleon’s voice suddenly sounded closer. Opening his eyes, Brownie couldn't help the way his ears startled up upon seeing Napoleon’s face so close to his own. His lips were slightly parted, a sympathetic light in his eyes. “It's alright, Brownie. We all have our off days, right?”

“No,” Brownie said, sighing. His self-training had taught him the basics of keeping calm under emergency conditions, and - were these emergency conditions? Probably. Absolutely. Yes. “Napoleon, thank you. I sincerely appreciate it, but I’m supposed to be a butler,” Brownie said, looking up at the other male. “I’m afraid tardiness on my part isn't to be tolerated at all.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes playfully and whacked Brownie in the head. “Aw, come on! When was the last time I saw you take a break ever?”

Head reeling from the unexpected blow, Brownie pressed his hand against it, waiting for the throbbing pains to dull.

“The amount of time you spent outside B-52’s room rehearsing your speech doesn't count, of course.”

“Wha - y-you _saw_ that?!” Cat ears flattened against his skull, Brownie settled for curling up against one of the kitchen counters and dying internally.

“Yeah.” Napoleon grinned sheepishly. “I mean… hopefully you at least said it to him?”

Napoleon was being incredibly kind with his use of the term ‘speech’, in Brownie’s humble opinion, when what had actually happened was himself spending a disproportionate amount of time figuring out how to even say _one_ sentence. Especially when he already had a plan in mind. Especially when what had happened right after was awkwardly barging in on a sleeping B-52 to bark a really half-baked version of said sentence at (no doubt) a very confused cocktail.

“Yes,” Brownie finally conceded, because it wasn't exactly a lie, after all. 

Napoleon’s face brightened up instantly. “And what did he say?”

Brownie fell even further onto the floor like he was melting into a puddle of goop. Could food souls melt? Probably not, but he felt like it all the same. “He said ‘sure’,” Brownie replied, a sudden giddiness overwhelming him. “He said ‘sure’!" he repeated, and this time he was pretty sure he was sporting the most insane grin known to any food soul _or_ fallen angel.

Napoleon grinned, pointing his signature finger guns at Brownie. “Of course he agreed,” he scoffed. “You two have always been awfully close partners, haven't you?”

Brownie nodded in reply before the memory of B-52’s quiet smile as he thanked Brownie for his contributions in battle resurface, and then he was back to covering his mouth, trying to avoid any evidence of his unprofessionalism peeking out.

Besides, with any luck, they would no longer simply be each other’s battle partners. Brownie had no idea how to tackle any of this, but perhaps with a little oiling, they could function as well as any other normal couple. 

Existence as a food soul and his immortality had taught Brownie multiple things, getting his hopes up too soon being one of them, but Brownie felt the tug of just throwing all caution to the wind increase exponentially. _Steady, steady. Be careful. Don’t get burnt,_ he chanted in his mind as though it were some sort of holy mantra.

B-52, quite apparently, had ruined all of his usual logical reasoning, and Brownie found it almost startling how badly this crucial compartment of his brain had been ripped out. But, maybe if it was his partner… 

This was B-52. He could trust him. If he couldn't, who could he? Brownie had seen the blond near death before, and if he had put his trust in Brownie then, Brownie could definitely put his trust in B-52 now, no matter what the outcome of this situation was.

“Brownie? Are you there? Brownie?” 

In the middle of his musing, Napoleon had dragged a wooden stool over to where Brownie lay in a crumpled heap - hold on, why was he still doing that? Standing up on wobbly legs, Brownie made himself dust all of the flour and sugar and whatnot off his apron, resisting the urge to pull a face. 

“Honestly, Napoleon, I can't thank you enough for being here.” Brownie clicked his tongue as he straightened his clothing. “I’m really, awfully sorry you have to see me like this. It’s incredibly unbecoming of me.” His cat ears fluttered, and despite himself Brownie felt a smile play along the edges of his lips once again. “Perhaps after all of this is over I can return to work.”

“Don't worry about it.” Napoleon winked. “Enjoy your day off, Brownie. Take it easy once in a while, you hear?”

“I -”

“No saying no! I have a sniper rifle ~”

“And I have a blaster,” Brownie retaliated with absolutely no heat in his words, save for the warmth that settled itself in his heart.

“So. It’s a date, then?”

“I… uh… well, I… didn't phrase it in that manner,” Brownie stammered out nervously.

 _Dating… rejection is still a possibility._ The realisation stung. Brownie blinked hard several times, clenching his fists.

It stung _badly_ , but Brownie understood he had to consider every possible circumstance, every single scenario. He was positive B-52 thought of him fondly, but as for what kind of bond he wanted them to share - platonic, familial or the one Brownie desired, romantic - Brownie still hadn't quite managed to decipher.

The bell ringed, startling them both. Grabbing a nearby plate and adjusting his hat, Napoleon shot another wink at Brownie. “Gotta go! You should probably go and rest for now. Come back later when you’re more talkative than a sack of flour. But really, good luck on your date, okay?” With a snap of his fingers, Napoleon exited the kitchen at a probably highly dangerous speed.

Brownie watched him go, for some reason still rooted in place, the word ‘date’ still echoing in his empty mind. After a few moments, Brownie finally got his legs to work. He set a brisk pace, heading out of the kitchen and to his nearby room, deep in thought, still puzzling over absolutely everything.

_I suppose that even if this isn't a date… perhaps it will help me understand B-52’s intentions much more clearly._


	20. Dinner Date (Apparently)

Brownie awoke after a nap to scurry to the kitchen to prepare exactly what he knew B-52’s favourite treat was. He knew he'd get chastised for it by his well-meaning friend, but some part of him still wanted to prove to himself - and only to himself - that he still had some of his usual capability in him.

Evening light filtered through the glass windows. Brownie hesitated at the door, peeking in briefly to check.

Napoleon sat on a dusty wooden chair, his body draped over the counter. The hat obscured most of his fluffy brown bangs. The soft light cast a warm orange glow all over him.

Tiptoeing in, Brownie managed to reach the storage room, hand on the door.

“Huh - wait - sugar!” Napoleon perked up instantly, roused by his presence. “Brownie? Where do you think you’re going?” Napoleon tried to chastise, though his sentence trailed off with a sleepy yawn. Rubbing his eyes, Napoleon tried blinking the sleep away.

Brownie sighed. _Of course._

Taking the temporary distraction from his mission, Brownie went over to check on his friend.

“How was work?”

“Uhh, Hawthorne, Pudding - where -” Napoleon yawned again, jabbing aimlessly at something. Brownie could only assume he was too tired to remember how to point.

“Go back to sleep,” Brownie whispered, patting his back. His hand briefly hovered over Napoleon’s hat before he decided that in his half-asleep state, Napoleon would probably try to kill him.

“You’re amazing… how do they? How do you?” Fighting the urge to fall back asleep, the brunet forced himself into a sitting position. “Anyway, Brownie, I thought… you. Break?”

“My break is over, and I promised him I’d make him something.” This time, Brownie patted Napoleon’s shoulder, then pushed against the unresponsive lump. “Go put yourself in the ice arena. You’ve deserved it. Do you need help?”

Shaking his head, Napoleon had just enough energy left to drag himself to his feet, wink at Brownie, slur “whipped~” as he leaned against the door and finally stumble out of Brownie’s sight.

Brownie looked down to realise his legs were trembling and so were his hands and his heart now was - _ugh_.

To make things worse, his fellow restaurant staff member Pudding had arrived, looking at Brownie with more than a little interest, before grabbing several dishes of braised pork and heading back out, calling, “Jello!”

Eternally grateful that at least some of his fellow food souls didn't seem hell bent on embarrassing him to death, Brownie returned to the task at hand. _Brownie! Concentrate,_ he scolded himself as he finally, finally got the ingredients he needed. _I can't believe you’ve forgotten eons of butler training just like that. Stop being so unsure. Pull yourself together. You’ve got this._

After many, many minutes of giving himself an internal pep talk and letting his hands run on autopilot and sheer instinct, Brownie finally had something to present for his efforts. Gingerly, he placed the plate of food on a nearby tray.

“Ooh! Smells nice!” Holding a frying pan in her left hand, Hawthorne Ball peeked in curiously. “Is that calamari?”

Brownie stubbornly told himself to stop reacting as though Hawthorne was threatening to kill him or something. He hadn't planned for anyone else to find out, but he figured that it was pretty much impossible for no one to know in this cozy kitchen.

“Yes, it is,” he admitted, defeated.

“Isn't that B-52’s favourite?”

“...he asked me to make it for him,” Brownie replied, suddenly feeling defensive. He tried to avoid crossing his arms and staring at the floor. _Eye contact, eye contact._

Hawthorne smiled rosily. “Oh! I see. He’s still sick, isn't he? Have fun!” With a cheery wave, the petite girl disappeared into the storage room. Relieved, he picked his tray up again.

Brownie reminded himself not to _run_ like a startled animal, to _walk calmly_ down the hallway like a dignified person. He didn't quite succeed at feeling like he was about to burst out of his skin in anticipation at seeing B-52 again, but that was another matter entirely, a milestone probably still far out of his reach.

Antsy, Brownie knocked on B-52’s door with one hand, hoping that he hadn't woken up the injured food soul again. 

He didn't, evidently, as one moment later B-52’s door creaked open, and there was a curious blue eye staring out. Nodding, the blond moved from his slight crouch. 

Brownie clicked his tongue, letting his disapproval show. “B-52, what are you doing?”

B-52 paused, his hands hovering over the metal. He looked up, nervously twiddling his fingers. “I am… trying to help you with the tray?”

“You’re injured. Please allow me to assist you,” Brownie insisted, using his foot to subtly knock the door-stopper out of place.

B-52’s one visible eyebrow furrowed. “Yeah, Brownie, but you’re my guest. I should be helping.”

“And I’m a butler.”

“A butler that made something for me just because I asked.”

“That’s my job description.”

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean you had to! You did it anyway! You offered!”

“Of course I offered! You’re my partner - wait, I…” Dumbfounded, Brownie just stared at his considerably lighter hands where his tray had been just a moment ago. Slowly, he tilted his head back up to where B-52 held said object in his hands, a triumphant look in his smouldering blue eye.

And it… it seemed to awaken something within him, something very new indeed.

“Too slow, Brownie,” B-52 teased with a little grin, leading the way back inside his room. 

Brownie stayed quiet, head bowed as if in shame, when in actual fact all he was thinking about was how strangely devilishly _handsome_ B-52 had been, and how much he suddenly wanted to see him like that again.

It was always… interesting, uncovering new sides, new _human_ sides of the legend B-52. He was soft, sharp, cold, warm. 

Whatever he was, he certainly wasn't the relentless fighting machine he still seemed to think himself as.

“You made this for me?” B-52 said now, his tone of voice genuinely surprised, as if he really hadn't expected Brownie to do such a thing, making Brownie long for the day where B-52 realised that he had worth to others as well. Brownie swore he spied B-52’s cheeks redden upon glancing up, though maybe it could be blamed on the flames of sunset trickling in through the drawn curtains.

Suddenly nervous, Brownie fiddled with a lock of his dark hair, blinking rapidly. “Yes. I-I hope you enjoy.” 

B-52’s eyes seemed to pick up on a almost curious light before he picked up the fork and stabbed it into one of the grilled octopuses. Brownie stood at the edge of his room, nervously pulling at his apron and biting his lip and other such nonsensical things.

“What are you doing all the way over there?” B-52 demanded, and now Brownie realised he was looking away, most likely out of embarrassment, which would indeed confirm his earlier hypothesis that the blond was flushing, so perhaps he was sick or -

“Come over here,” B-52 called, kicking at the empty spot on his bed. Then he stopped. “Please?” he asked, and then there he was doing the whole looking away thing again. 

Brownie was sure he was probably the only person in the world to think of B-52 as… as _cute_.

“Do you like it?” Brownie asked softly, leaning over slightly to check if the food was still warm. B-52’s lips parted slightly before his blush returned even redder than before. Bending over, several strands of his messy blond bangs spilled over his eyes as he started to eat.

His movements seemed hurried and imprecise; Brownie wondered what on earth could be bothering him. It was probably Brownie being in his room here, alone, again, and maybe the start up of the rumor mill had B-52 concerned about his reputation, since he’d brought it up this afternoon after all. And Brownie couldn't exactly blame him.

And then Brownie realised that B-52, even this unkempt, was really still rather… attractive.

Yes. Attractive, that was the word, with his tousled hair and sleepiness and the uneven collar of his wrinkled nightclothes. Brownie felt like counting all of Tangyuan’s blessings for being able to see him like this, in such a… strangely adorable way, even if maybe he didn't really want him here. Brownie bit his lip.

However, Brownie only realised he had been staring when he heard the metallic clink of cutlery being placed back onto the tray. “It was good,” B-52 muttered, facing him now, and Brownie could only hope B-52 hadn't caught him very obviously intensely invading his privacy.

_I wish I could stay with him here forever._

Unfortunately, that wasn't really that possible now, what with B-52 being assigned to one of the main battle units - and as of right now, needing lots of rest - and Brownie taking up being a butler in the café. They weren't exactly battling partners now, but Brownie craved the fleeting moments where they got to spend some rare time together.

And. Yes. B-52 seemed concerned with getting Brownie out as quickly as possible, didn't he? That was probably why he wasn't speaking much.

“Let me clear this for you.” Brownie reached out. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

“On… your… way?” B-52 echoed blankly. 

Brownie paused with the tray in his hands. “Yes?”

“Can't you… I mean, I… ugh…” B-52 sucked in a breath before he looked up at Brownie with the most pleading expression one with half a face obscured could even make. “Can you stay a little longer?”

“I…” Brownie’s hands faltered. The tray was smooth. _Don’t drop it._ “I suppose I have nothing else in my schedule, but… I thought you wanted me to go.”

“To… what?” Frustrated, B-52 shook his head wildly. “No, I mean, I… if I’m keeping you, maybe, I mean I guess… I…” His pale hands clutched at his covers. “Okay, uh, nevermind,” he muttered with a glare, once again staring at some distant spot in the horizon.

“...are you sure?” Brownie asked, concerned, sensing something else on his partner’s mind.

B-52 stared at him with his one eye, unyielding. Brownie stood there, heart pounding, awaiting further instructions. At this point, he didn't know if he’d rather be sent away or be asked to stay. Something was causing B-52 much distress, that much was obvious, but if it wasn't because of Brownie, then maybe he should. Alternatively, maybe it _was_ because of Brownie and B-52 was attempting to spare his feelings. Nervously, Brownie traced the smooth edges of the tray with his gloved finger.

The motion seemed to snap B-52 back to attention, blinking and alert. Brownie opened his mouth, ready to offer some sort of apology when B-52 cut him off.

“Can I touch your ears again?”


	21. Dinner Date (Crashed)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re too awkward guys please help them  
> It was hard to choose whose perspective to write this chapter from, but then i figured we already had the petter’s pov, so we’d need the pettee’s… (yep those are words now)

“Can I touch your ears again?”

There was a loud clatter as silverware crashed onto the floor.

Brownie could only stare dumbly as B-52 stuttered out several non-sequiturs and made several grand gestures of extreme embarrassment. Finally, he shut up, swallowing audibly. His hands felt sweaty, and his gloves suddenly felt glued to his palms.

“I… I…” B-52 stammered out, tugging harshly at his plain white covers.

Subconsciously, Brownie’s ears flicked again as he looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of the pesky little cat ears. He reached up with one clammy hand, index finger hovering near one of the triangular shapes.

B-52 gulped again, looking at Brownie awkwardly. “I’m… I’m sorry, they were just like, twitching and… and then I kinda remembered that…?” Allowing his sentence to trail off, B-52 hid the rest of him under the covers, leaving only his one eye peeking out. 

Brownie understood - B-52 always had a habit of blurting things out, after all, perhaps as a battle against his previous programming.

_“...I wanted to prove that I’m not a ‘machine’.”_

Flaws versus precision, impulsiveness against logical thought...

“You can touch them if you want.”

...something that Brownie himself wasn't entirely guilt-free about.

B-52 made a weird noise then, something that could only be described as a whimper of amazement. Concerned, Brownie stepped closer before his boots clacked against the metal tray scattered on the ground. Butler instincts kicking in, he arranged the fallen items neatly on the tray and placed it on B-52’s nightstand for now. His calm, orderly actions helped to mask the fact that inside, Brownie was bursting with anticipation, and his legs had gotten so weak he probably could fall over any second.

“So you mean you can stay?” B-52 asked as Brownie sat himself down at the other end of B-52’s bed again.

“I can, unless you want me to go,” Brownie replied patiently, despite the fact that all his instincts were screaming _no, no, no_ and some deep, dark part inside himself just wanted B-52 to stop stalling and get it over with already. 

From the sudden hesitation that had settled over B-52, however, Brownie decided that maybe, right now the best approach would be to go slowly.

B-52 shrugged awkwardly. “Well, I don't want you to go, but if you’re busy…”

Really, _excruciatingly_ slowly.

Brownie wasn't irritated; quite the opposite, in fact, seeing his partner care about him so much. It seemed, though, that Brownie needed to find a way to get through to him, to tell B-52 it was okay, that he was worth his time. 

Maybe the best place to start was by closing the distance.

“My schedule is free,” he repeated, a smile playing along the edge of his lips. He hadn't been quite aware his hands were resting right over B-52’s blanketed knee until his unconscious jerk caught his eye.

B-52 had recoiled. Brownie paused, his back tense now. 

Bad idea, bad idea.

The blond’s body language seemed stiff, his position rigid, but B-52 himself hadn't turned away, so Brownie assumed that he hadn't properly crossed any unspoken boundaries just yet. He could reverse this, right? No problem.

 _Talking. Stick to talking,_ Brownie thought as he asked, “Is there something that made you think I don't want to be here?”

B-52 clutched his plain, fluffy pillow to his chest. His eye narrowed into a glare. “What about you?” he shot back. “You’re acting weird too!” Then B-52 paused and cursed under his breath.

Caught off guard, Brownie scrambled to answer. “I um -” His mind was blank.

“No, no.” B-52 shook his head. “No I mean, I didn't really mean…” B-52 threw the covers off. Legs scrambling, he shuffled closer to Brownie, and this close, Brownie could indeed deduce that B-52’s face was flushed a lovely red. Brownie blinked, mesmerised for a few moments before the now-familiar pleasant feeling enveloped his senses.

Brownie closed his eyes contentedly.

B-52 was… close.

One of his pale fingers traced the edges of Brownie’s ears. The brunet relaxed into his partner’s soft, gentle touch, leaning forward unconsciously. This was the feeling he had been craving for a while now, ever since the little dose he had gotten from B-52 in the ice arena, and maybe… maybe now that Brownie had seconds, he’d go for a third helping. Or fourth, or fifth, or…

Brownie blinked away the pleasant haze blanketing his thoughts. Oh. B-52 had said something. Right, right. It was just so hard to concentrate when B-52’s hands seemed to be like magic, and there was that strange urge to… to do something again, and… B-52 had said something. Wait.

“Pardon?”

B-52 stopped his motions, but his fingers remained close to Brownie’s ears, just barely brushing against them. “I said, why would you ever think I wouldn't want you around?” he repeated, his voice low and dripping with affection.

Brownie realised his ears were pricked up in attention. Embarrassed, Brownie looked for something to do that didn't involve pulling at B-52’s sheets nervously. “You seemed rather hurried,” he explained, ears doing the flicky-flick trick again.

The tension slipped away like ice under the sun. B-52 barked out a little laugh at that, and Brownie sure was glad he had stable ground (mattress) underneath him. “Brownie,” he said in that teasing tone, “Napoleon’s been kicking my door down, Sanma was dragged in here by force, and Chocolate just kinda snuck in. You’re the only one I’ve actually invited in this whole damn week.”

“I…” Brownie ducked his head, flattered. Maybe it was selfish of him, but he found that he liked that. He liked that a lot, really, being B-52’s special exception… then Brownie paused.

_Wait._

“Sanma?” he demanded, grabbing B-52’s shoulders. _Sanma, Sanma, crap, Sanma knows! What has he told him?!_ Brownie wondered desperately. If Sanma had told B-52 about that _novel_ , well then. Firstly, he needed a way to get away with murder, and then secondly, a way to get away with suicide.

Surprised by Brownie’s sudden aggressiveness, B-52 could only stare before he replied, “Sanma just taught me neat tricks about cats.”

His ears flicked _again_. “Cats?” Brownie echoed nervously, but mentally he checked Sanma off on his ‘trustable food souls’ list.

B-52 nodded. “Yeah. He told me to - oh. _Oh._ ” B-52’s eye widened briefly, his hand wandering over to the center of Brownie’s head. 

Which… wasn't meant to be exposed. 

Clutching at the air where his hat had been previously, Brownie looked around frantically before he spotted it lying discarded and forgotten on top of B-52’s detached metal wings. Brownie blinked and then thanked the gods that B-52 couldn't see crimson on his cheeks.

“Everything okay?” B-52 asked, hand still outstretched. “Can I still?”

“Still?”

B-52 lowered it. “Your ears,” he said. Brownie swore he detected an undercurrent of uncertainty in the blond’s voice, but that couldn't be right, could it? B-52 wasn't really the type of person to be reduced to stuttering, stammering, glances here and there, glances _away_ here and there…

And then it hit him.

Brownie swallowed. Perhaps he should shelve this away for further analysis, because for now B-52’s eye peered out between some of his dishevelled bangs, and it was doing funny things to him. “You can,” Brownie croaked out, his throat feeling desperately in need of some water. 

He wasn't sure what to do or to approach any of this, and maybe he was getting ahead of himself and tripping and crashing all over, but Brownie couldn't exactly stop the excitement that thrummed in his veins, and besides, time together sounded… pleasant.

“Alright,” Brownie said out loud to steady himself. As an offering, he bent his head forward slightly. Even this awkward position, however, didn't stop Brownie from spotting the _adorably_ summery smile that blossomed on B-52’s face.

“Right, so, Sanma taught me a few things,” B-52 repeated, his hand hovering next to… to Brownie’s face? B-52 hesitated, eye flickering between his hand and Brownie’s curious eyes. “Okay, maybe… nevermind.”

“What was it?”

B-52 gulped, swiping his tongue over his lips. So distracted by the strangely intimate motion was Brownie that he almost didn't register the touch at first.

Almost.

Brownie realised that B-52 was gingerly resting the back of his mechanical hand against his cheek when something _electrifying_ ran along his spine. Brownie froze, but the moment he sensed B-52 about to pull away, he leaned into it, letting out the urge that had been tugging at him. 

It manifested into a certain deep rumbling sound, and Brownie couldn't seem to stop. Maybe, maybe, Brownie should be a little more concerned about all of this, about exactly what changes had been made to his simulated anatomy that had made this even remotely possible, about why on earth he couldn't seem to control any of these newfound instincts, and the fact that - well, he wasn't an actual cat, after all - but B-52 was warm and near and good and he felt nice.

“You’re okay with this?” B-52’s voice sounded strained and breathless. When Brownie’s purring finally died down, he realised that B-52 was biting down on his bottom lip, his face even more flushed then before.

“Y-yeah.” Brownie paused for a moment, calculating what to do next. He’d never had any sort of experience in this sort of situation before, and he was hyperaware of B-52’s scent and his touch and his own short, sharp breaths.

Impulsively, Brownie made a grab for B-52’s hand. B-52 jerked in surprise, but did nothing to pull away. Before he had the chance to back out mentally, Brownie guided his hand, allowing B-52’s fingers to brush against his cheek.

“You know,” Brownie said, humor glimmering in his blue eyes, “I think it’s supposed to go like this.”

“Ah, ah right, y-yeah, I guess, like… y-you aren't a cat. Right.” B-52 forcefully cut himself off, his face positively scarlet. “Right,” he added lamely, tongue running along his lips again. Brownie stared, perplexed at the sudden want to lean forward, and...

“B-52! You’re late!” came the shout. _Thud, thud, thud._ “What are you even doing inside? Sulking?! You’re gonna miss dinner!”

The unruly door banging continued, and Brownie could almost mistake the sounds for his heart skidding to a complete stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little notice: since i have finals, this fic will probably go on a hiatus for a while, or at the least have incredibly delayed uploads. Now might be a good time to check some revisions ive made to earlier chapters if you're curious. Thank you all for following and supporting me so far!


	22. Dinner Date (Ruined)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals might be killing me, but B-52 is doing way worse.

Napoleon sighed, adjusting the brim of his signature hat. It was a little inconvenient sometimes. Why couldn't he see anything, oh no -

Napoleon stumbled a little as something warm brushed against his hip. Tipping his hat back, he blinked. “Bonjour,” he greeted Chocolate with a slightly hesitant smile.

Chocolate had his trademark grin in place, but luckily for Napoleon made no move forward. “What brings you here?” he purred suggestively.

“Master Attendant told me to grab both B-52 and Brownie and bring them to dinner. I know where B-52 is,” Napoleon said in amusement, waving a hand around, “but I’m not sure where Brownie could be. Any ideas?”

Exaggeratedly, Chocolate straightened his shoulders, stretching his back as he looked to the ceiling. When he graced Napoleon with his smile again, there was a spark of fire in his eyes.

“I have a… _slight_ suspicion.”

.

B-52 froze.

_Error. Emergency._

Blinking away stray bits of code darkening the edges of his eyes, B-52 forcibly shoved Brownie off the bed. “Hide,” he hissed, pushing his partner in the gap underneath his bed. The frame creaked as Brownie obliged and crawled in further. The end result was Brownie laying down chest-first in what seemed to be a very uncomfortable position. Fortunately, the area underneath his bed was dark and dingy, so if nothing else it worked as a suitable cover to conceal Brownie from wandering eyes.

From the gloom, two clear sky blue eyes glanced up at him. Something tugged at B-52’s heart. He offered Brownie a slight shake of his head.

_I’m so sorry, Brownie -_

No sooner had he finished the thought when Napoleon burst in. “Bonjour,” he greeted, a sleepy smile on his face; maybe that was the reason why he didn't notice B-52 all but scraping his mechanical hand against the wooden bedframe in his haste.

Still scrambling to set his mind straight after everything that had happened before Napoleon’s crude interruption, B-52 buried his fingers into the sheets, repeating “Bonjour?” in very terrible English.

 _Don’t look down, don’t look down!_ he pleaded mentally. B-52 forced himself to avoid letting his gaze wander over to where Brownie was hidden; there was a chance of provoking Napoleon’s suspicions, however dense the other food soul might be. Instead, his eyes darted around the room, as if there was some way of saving this insane situation to be found on the plain wooden walls.

Napoleon’s smile widened, pleased. “Trying to flatter me, are you? No can do. Master Attendant sent me, your best friend -” he winked, “- to drag you back to dinner~”

“Ah,” said B-52 blankly, forcing himself to look at Napoleon. “I… well… I’m not hungry?”

Napoleon shrugged apologetically. “I said that to them, but they were insistent you come out for some quality bonding time. I agree, mind you.” Napoleon gestured to B-52’s room, which he obviously thought way too confined. “You can't just stay here and think about Brownie all -”

“NAPOLEON!” B-52 let out an unholy screech, slamming into the dumbstruck food soul so hard that both of them fell in a tangled mess of metal and limbs on the carpet. Ruby red eyes blinked up at him. B-52 was probably dead, or dying. Of all places for Napoleon to blurt out his secret...

_Fuck fuck fuck he can see Brownie from here! Oh god oh god Brownie heard that OH GOD._

What could possibly be going through Brownie’s mind right now?

B-52 felt like the world’s biggest idiot.

And so, forcing himself to concentrate on not being a total idiot, B-52 scrambled off Napoleon. “Dinner. Right. T-tell them I’ll be right there.” B-52 laughed nervously as he pulled Napoleon up. He must have done it a little too forcefully, however, since Napoleon slapped his hand away, rubbing his shoulders and grimacing. Testily, he bent over to pick up his hat.

“H-hey, nevermind, let me help you with that!”

Napoleon paused. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I can do it myself,” he said in a way that implied he was trying to avoid succumbing to the instinct of grabbing his rifle and ramming B-52 through with a few well-placed bullets.

So not only did B-52 have to deal with a (probably) incredibly disgusted Brownie, he also had to deal with the consequences of a pissed-off Napoleon Cake.

Just great. His night was going _spectacularly_.

With his… _everything_ spiralling out of control, B-52 kicked the covers over the bed, further obscuring the hidden Brownie from view. It was fine, right? Cats _could_ see in the dark, right? Was sitting with his legs crossed over where Brownie’s eyes peeked out a better option than spreading them to cover more ground, or was he going absolutely crazy here?

Noticing that Napoleon wasn't paying attention for the moment, B-52 looked at the covers one last time to confirm Brownie was completely hidden. For now, B-52 adamantly refused to even think about Brownie’s possible reactions to the… horrible things that Napoleon had just blurted out. Crawling over to his nightstand on his knees, B-52 pulled out his secret stash of Napoleon bribes. 

“I… have some candy. So, like, well… do you want one?”

Napoleon stopped fiddling with his hat long enough to give B-52 an unamused look. Nonetheless, he swiped the little packets out of B-52’s hand. “Man, I know you’ve got it bad,” Napoleon started, glaring slightly, “but was that really needed?” 

_Oh my god please stop please stop please._ Coughing incredibly loudly, B-52 gave Napoleon an extremely strained, exaggerated grin. Sweat rolled down his temples. _Please, shut the fuck up!_

Silently, B-52 watched as a very disgruntled Napoleon popped a grape-flavoured sweet in his mouth. Finally deciding now was the right time to get on his knees and beg, B-52 begun with, “I’m… sorry. I don't know what got into me.”

Napoleon’s annoyance simmered below the surface for a few moments longer before he took a second look at B-52, hunched on the bed, curled up, gripping desperately at the mattress covers. He regarded the blond thoughtfully, tapping his foot against the mussed up carpet.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “It’s fine. But anyway, It doesn't look like you were doing anything. So you can come, right?”

“Uh, uh, uh...” _Don’t look down._ B-52 wondered if his face could be permanently stretched into this hideous grin. “Y-yes?”

“Great.” Napoleon nodded, satisfied. As Napoleon devoured more of the sweets, he seemed to slowly calm down, the tension disappearing from his body. B-52 considered this a small victory for now. 

“Speaking of Brownie, where’s he?” Napoleon asked, slightly muffled. Fortunately, he was so focused on how many ~~bribes~~ pieces of candy he had left that he didn't notice B-52 almost falling onto the floor.

“I-I mean, how w-would I know?” B-52 stammered as he righted himself again. 

“He’s late, too. Has he been here? He wanted to visit you just now.” Napoleon gave him a strange look. Great. _Napoleon_ was giving him a strange look. Napoleon, the eccentric and talkative and decidedly strange food soul was giving _him_ a strange look.

Everything was going to hell.

“What? Why the fuck are you asking me?!” B-52 snapped, gears kicking into overdrive and going on the defensive. “It’s not like I’m Master Attendant or some shit! How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

A cold wind seemed to blow. Napoleon’s smile faltered for a moment before it was back in place, perfect and sunny as usual; and frankly, B-52 found this infinitely more terrifying than the glare Napoleon had sported a few moments ago.

“You two are very close friends,” Napoleon said in a tone too polite to be genuine. Then B-52 realised that Napoleon had tried to help him today and here he was brusquely implying for him to get lost.

What was he doing? What was he _doing_? At this rate he was going to burn bridges with both of his closest friends. “I mean, I…” Expelling a loud breath of frustration, B-52 grit his teeth, messing up his own hair even further. “Napoleon, I…” _Please don't…_

Napoleon just sighed, taking a seat next to B-52, sending the blond into a mass panic as he discreetly tried to kick the sheets as a signal for Brownie… for Brownie to… to do what? He didn't know. In any case, he sure hoped that Napoleon would _hurry up_ and go find Brownie elsewhere and stop bothering him and spitting out way too much information he wasn't quite ready for Brownie to know yet.

Napoleon’s chuckle seemed oddly sombre. “You know, it’s kinda funny seeing you this weird.”

“...weird?”

“There’s no problem, you know? The intensity you’re feeling… it’ll be over in a while.” Now Napoleon did smile and brandish his signature flag in B-52’s face. “But I guess all of us gotta deal with you for now, huh?” Napoleon joked. His eyelids crinkled.

“Right, right.” B-52 squirmed on his sheets, dizzy off the shots of adrenaline. He stared at the absolute mess he had made of his room. Guilt and melancholy throbbed in his veins. “I’m… really sorry,” he said quietly.

He hadn't seen Napoleon this serious in a long time. B-52’s mind travelled back to the inn on that fateful day, the day of his rebirth. 

_Pain._

_B-52 clutched at his sides as he leaned on the walls for support. Wincing every step of the way, he finally managed to locate the other food soul._

_Napoleon Cake, was it?_

_He had saved him, but the food soul named Brownie seemed to be the only one able to pardon his horrible actions. B-52 couldn't understand it, either, the way Brownie had talked to him, had listened to his troubles and stories without any judgement or wariness._

_But… if this was his first step towards redemption…_

_At the least Napoleon wasn't with the little girl; Brownie was. B-52 didn't want to look at her. He couldn't look at her. How could he, after he’d so callously murdered her entire family? She deserved to hate him after that._

_B-52 hesitated in the doorway. “Napoleon Cake?” he called out._

_Bristling, the short food soul whipped around, brandishing his gun. He didn't pull the trigger, but all at once, B-52 froze._

_He didn't want to die._

_Slowly, B-52 raised both his hands in a gesture of peace. “My cane is back there,” he said pleadingly. “Please. I just want to talk.”_

_Napoleon’s suspicious gaze didn't falter, but he lowered his gun all the same. B-52 took a few steps forward slowly. Pain lashed through his entire body. He had to stop, pressing his hand against the wound._

_His… mechanical hand…_

_“Need help?” Suddenly, Napoleon had crossed the wooden flooring, his hands steadying B-52 as he pushed him down slightly in a silent invitation to sit. B-52 accepted it, grimacing._

_“...thank you.”_

_“What?”_

_“Thank you for saving me. I don't understand why you did it, though,” B-52 said, looking away. Suddenly, the faces of the many he had murdered had appeared, swarming his vision, causing a foreign sensation to rise up in him. B-52 blinked, shaking away the visions. “You still don't seem to like me all that much.”_

_Napoleon’s expression betrayed nothing before it finally softened a little. “Brownie trusts you. He told me he doesn't think you’re a vile person, and he never ever goes by his intuition. You must be really special, so I guess I’ll trust you too,” he replied, patting B-52 on the back._

_“...what did you just do?”_

_“This?” Napoleon repeated the gesture, this time more gently. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”_

_“No, but… why did you do it?”_

_A shadow of gloom cloaked Napoleon’s face. “Spaghetti really did you in, huh?” he said sympathetically._

_B-52 kept silent._

_Napoleon smiled now, giving him a wink - gestures that were lost on B-52. “In that case, let me help you understand… what it means to be human.”_

“I’m only surprised, that’s all.”

B-52 blinked away the memories clogging up his mind.

“I mean,” Napoleon continued thoughtfully, “when I knew I had a crush on him I didn't end up like this, but now you’re acting really weird. Maybe you’re just super bad at feelings as usual.”

“...crush on who?”

Napoleon coughed, hugging his knees to his chest, face flushed red. “I-I mean, uh, Pastel, he’s really nice, right?”

B-52 just smiled awkwardly, not knowing how to react. It was bad enough trying to deal with his own feelings. He didn't know how to help Napoleon as well.

“A-anyway! I guess I’ll see you later! If you wanna come! I-I guess Brownie might be doing something weird elsewhere, I dunno! Um, bye!” Seemingly flustered that he had let something so personal slip out, Napoleon made a beeline for the door. Before he left, Napoleon hesitated, glancing back at B-52. “Take care of Brownie,” he said, voice serious again. “I want to see him be happy for once.”

Napoleon didn't bother even shutting the door as he ran outside, the pitter-patter of his footsteps incredibly obvious to anyone in a thousand mile radius.

As it faded away, B-52 was reminded he had yet another problem on his hands as slowly, a dark shape crawled out from beneath his bed. Standing up on shaky legs, Brownie walked stiffly over to the door left ajar, closing it without a sound.

_Oh no no no no no._

B-52 had been dreading this.

Maybe there was still hope. Maybe Brownie wouldn't be absolutely, completely disgusted. Maybe there was another way Brownie could take all of Napoleon’s statements.

Brownie’s blue eyes gleamed in the light. “Do you have time? Can we talk?” he asked quietly, rubbing his gloved hands together nervously.

B-52’s heart plummeted to the bottom of Coffee’s abyss.

Yeah, right. How foolish it had been to hope.

There was absolutely no way B-52 was getting out of this alive.


	23. Aftermath: Uncalculated Risks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, i am a horrible student

Brownie stood facing B-52, his black ears pricked and alert. “Uh, w-well?” he began hesitantly.

B-52 wanted to die.

It was all because of Brownie’s stupid, _stupid_ cute fluffy cat ears and his own lack of self control.

 _What the hell was I even thinking?_ B-52 grit his teeth. _Well, I obviously_ wasn't _thinking!_

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

This was what his friends had always warned him about, right? Never to rush into anything without a plan? Well, he could sure use some advice from the heavens right about now.

Brownie coughed, reminding B-52 that he was about to witness his very own murder on this very day. “B-52, I… er…”

B-52 shook his head desperately. “No no no I can explain!”

“Explain?”

“Yes! Explain!”

“I, uh, y-yeah that’d be great but, I mean -”

“Mean? I didn't mean anything!”

“But he -”

“He didn't mean anything! I think. I think?!”

“You think?”

“I think!”

“But then, what about -”

“Oh my god I don't know, okay?!”

Brownie stared. B-52 stared back.

_Oh god he’s gonna hate me forever oh god fucking shit hell._

Breathing hard, B-52 felt tears of exertion prick at the corner of his eyes. The blond stubbornly slapped one hand over his mouth, refusing to bark out any more half-baked statements in Brownie’s face. Faintly, he heard a sound, as if something was whistling. Had he burst one of his steam pipes? But nothing hurt, so… maybe it was his imagination?

Stress. Yeah, that was probably it.

Of course, due to his own lapse in judgement, B-52 now found himself trapped in a situation where even countless databanks couldn't help him. He stared up at Brownie as if he was a lamb to be led to the slaughterhouse.

“Alright, firstly, let’s calm ourselves,” Brownie said hurriedly, more to himself then B-52. It was probably lucky that his sheets were strewn over the entire floor by now, as Brownie had no further way of messing up what was already a lost cause. B-52 spotted the tension pricking along Brownie’s spine, the rigid posture as he paced agitatedly around the room.

“You’re not… you’re not calm, huh?” B-52 joked weakly.

Brownie shook his head, continuing to pace round and round and round and round. “Let me think.”

“What’s there to think about?” B-52 snapped, far harsher than he had meant to. Instantly, he bit his tongue. What was he even doing? Wow. He really was doing a really good job of alienating everyone close to him today.

Luckily, Brownie paid him no mind. “He said ‘take care of Brownie,’” he mumbled to himself. Stopped. Looked right at B-52. “What did that mean?”

“I…” Instinctively, B-52’s hands seeked out his fluffy pillow, the only thing that had survived the events of the Bed Content Tipping. Was there any chance Brownie would be willing to accept that Napoleon was simply a stupid idiot who didn't know what he was talking about? The gears whirred and groaned as B-52 desperately tried to map out a solution.

No, but he had seen it himself: Napoleon didn't often lose that idiotic grin on his face.

“Could that… c-could that possibly…” Brownie stammered, making several nervous gestures. His back was facing B-52 again. “N-no, I mean, wait, Napoleon, he…” Brownie all but tripped over the blanket. “Wait, N-Napoleon, he… he knew. What? What?!”

Curiosity and a lingering sense of doom battled it out in B-52’s exhausted mind. “...what?”

Brownie came close then. Hesitantly, he held a hand out, index finger pointing right at B-52’s chest. “Please forgive my bluntness, but do you... think about me often?”

B-52 froze.

Vaguely, he was aware of the sweat running down his neck and back. Outside, Bamboo’s obnoxiously loud voice echoed down the hallway, but it sounded faint and distant to B-52's ears.

There was no use denying anything now. Damn that Napoleon to hell. But first, B-52 swallowed audibly and closed his eyes as he bravely prepared to get slaughtered alive.

“Y-yeah, yeah,” he finally said, nodding incessantly - and do _stop_ that, B-52, that was troublesome and annoying.

_Great._

Brownie’s eyes gleamed in very slightly piqued interest. “Why did you react the way you did?”

“I… well… what do you mean?” 

“...even Napoleon knew you were acting weird.”

One piece of advice B-52 had picked up in battle: if an attack was far too strong, it was better to deflect it.

“Weren't you acting weird earlier too?”

The awkwardness seemed to have gotten to Brownie as well. With every sentence both of them uttered, his posture became more and more hunched. His adorable fluffy kitty ears were folded now, and they were really soft, and Brownie was… currently probably mad at him. _Stay on track,_ B-52 scolded himself.

But it was rather hard to, with the knowledge that there was something out of his grasp, just right there, dangling in front of him like a string…

“I suppose I was,” Brownie admitted, “but I would like to know why you did it as well.”

B-52 huddled closer to his pillow. Maybe if he hugged it hard enough he could disappear. He didn't like being put on trial like this. He didn't like this. Not at all. Turned out B-52 could only withstand judgement if it was from anyone but Brownie. The food soul he had been with for so long… the first… and now he had gone and ruined it.

“Are you alright?” Brownie asked, looking him over. His ears lifted slightly. “Are you uncomfortable?”

 _Yes. I am. Very._ “No.”

Cat ears angled toward the doorway as several footsteps squeaked past. The smaller food souls seemed to be chattering about candy or whatever. Quieter this time, Brownie asked, “Would you like to tell me?”

 _Cute._ B-52 hesitated.

“...should I start?” Brownie continued. He was hovering just above B-52’s mattress. Taking pity on Brownie’s most likely tired legs, he invited him to sit.

“Start?” B-52 asked as soon as Brownie was positioned a convenient distance away such that both their minds could work with maximum clarity even in this terrible situation.

“Or would you like to?”

“Start? Start… operating? I don't know how to start.”

“You said you were… thinking about me?”

“I mean… I was,” B-52 whispered.

Brownie coughed then. Really fakely. His mouth opened and closed five times each. Gulping, Brownie’s eyes seemed fixated on B-52’s closed door. B-52 glanced back and forth between them. _Same,_ he thought.

The next thing B-52 registered was softness of a fabric that didn't quite match the mattress they were sharing, and a jolt, and then B-52 looked and _fuck._ That wasn't what he had meant to do at all.

B-52 very, very slowly dared to look at Brownie’s surely horrified expression. What he found, however, was that Brownie’s skin had a little more colour in it than usual; though he was nervously worrying his lip between his teeth, he did nothing to pull away. A single bead of sweat travelled down his temple.

Brownie looked… flustered.

That was… what B-52 himself was feeling. Right?

B-52 glanced back to where their hands met. Daring to feed the hope flaring inside him, he moved his fingers so that they were touching. It was a different sensation from the ones he had experienced with his mechanical hand - these felt more… more real, more feeling, more human.

B-52 looked back up and realised he was looking into Brownie’s eyes. For a minute, or maybe an hour, or maybe a year, they stayed silent, just breathing. Finally, chuckling nervously, Brownie asked, “So I was… I was wondering. Right, I was wondering, if you... liked me a-as more than a friend?”

 _Thud, thud, thud._ B-52 wasn't sure if those were the sounds of the other food souls returning from a good dinner he had definitely missed, or the sounds of himself dying via sudden and painful heart attack. Could food souls get those? He didn't know, but all he knew was it was suddenly hard to breathe, or think, or do anything, and there was something pulling and tugging right where his heart would be if he was human.

His mind had blanked out momentarily, and so, scrambling and tripping around desperately in the dark, B-52 reached out for the one option that had suddenly appeared in his to-do list, flashing neon signals and screaming, _pick me!_

“I guess… the cat’s out of the bag?”

Brownie didn't blink.

B-52 laughed nervously. What the hell? What was he doing again? Actually, he held no answer to that question. He had apparently conveniently forgotten what conscious thought was in the past hour. Now he had gone and ruined everything. 

_Again._

The sounds of muffled laughter jerked him out of his misery.

Brownie, he… B-52 had made Brownie laugh. There he was, hair falling around his face as his eyes scrunched up, shoulders shaking, and Brownie was honest to god _laughing his head off._

There was a god. He had seen heaven. There were actual, non-fallen angels who walked Tierra.

“Indeed,” Brownie gasped out, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, “Indeed.”

B-52 found his lips being stretched into a grin of their own accord. He also registered the mechanical whirrs as his engines quietened down finally. Finally. Everything had been replaced by something… new. Something that made him dizzy. B-52 felt like running outside at this late hour and screaming and jumping around.

_...excitement._

“Brownie?” B-52 dared to shuffle closer. Gingerly, he held a hand out. It hovered over Brownie’s trembling shoulders before he dared to make contact. “Brownie,” he repeated, rubbing his hand along Brownie’s shoulders; probably an incorrect method of doing it, but oh well. Gradually, Brownie’s hysterics died down.

“Brownie, where does this leave us?”

Brownie looked just as blank as B-52 felt. Nervously, he pulled and tugged at his apron. 

“Are you… still up for meeting me for target practice?”

B-52 couldn't believe it. Brownie wasn't pushing him away. In fact, he was doing the opposite. This was good, this was everything he had dreamed of subconsciously, everything he hadn't known he was missing…

B-52 grinned, and found he couldn't stop. “I’ll be right there.”

This was insane, but utterly perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright alright i think ill drag my ass back to studying. There'll probably be delays in chapters after this for at least the next month, sorry!


	24. Sweets and other Sugared Treats

Stepping into the communal shower rooms allowed Brownie to wash off the day’s grievances and regret. However, the joys remained, clinging to him like pollen clung to bees.

Brownie almost felt like dancing round and round where the shower of ‘rain’ fell. Composing himself, he made himself rinse and wash off in a timely manner and absolutely not giggle and crash against the wet walls and hug himself and _oh god he did it, he did it._

So _maybe_ Brownie was having a little trouble keeping himself on track. But could anyone blame him? Not when he had finally worked up the nerve, when B-52 had more than reciprocated, when now they could… Brownie’s embarrassment flared up.

Fortunately, he was the only one using the shower rooms, so no one was around to witness him hopping aboard the gush train. A little (long) while later, Brownie emerged, running a hand through his wet hair, even darker with the dampness. His butler uniform was folded neatly over his left arm. Bending down, he stopped to pick up his boots before he changed into casual slippers. Tongue sticking out, he occupied himself with trying to wipe all water off his slippers on the bathroom mat; he couldn't have pools of water contaminating the wooden floors outside. 

Finally satisfied, Brownie headed back to his room.

“Brownie~”

Brownie was slammed-tackled by a very feisty food soul. Unsure how to react, Brownie stayed silent. Nervously, he cranked his head back slightly despite knowing exactly who it was.

“Pastel kicked me out of the kitchen. Said something about ‘proper time and proper places’,” Napoleon mimicked, wagging a finger and wearing an exaggerated frown on his face. “What’s wrong with him? Sugar can be eaten anytime and anywhere!”

Still at a loss of response, Brownie could only nod, his mouth gaping open slightly. To be perfectly honest, he had no idea what to do or how to even approach his friend right now, after that whole showdown in B-52’s quarters. 

Seemingly disappointed at his lack of response, Napoleon pouted, snuggling close to Brownie. “Sooooo, can I sleep over at your place?” he asked insistently.

“ _Again?_ ” Brownie finally found his voice. “Why?” he asked, faintly amused.

Napoleon grinned. “I know you have a huge stash of sweets ~”

“I’d like to request for you to get your own.” Brownie scoffed good-naturedly as he pushed the door open. The stash _was_ specifically just for Napoleon, but sometimes he couldn't help but poke fun at the sugar addict. “Didn't B-52 give you enough? Why do you still -” Then Brownie bit his tongue as he realised what he had let slip out.

Not noticing Brownie’s sudden tenseness, Napoleon just laughed. “Ah, he told you about that? Tell him he’s dumb. I always have room for more!”

“Ah, yeah, he did. Okay, I will.” _That was a close call._ Looking at Napoleon’s eager face, however, made Brownie feel inexplicably guilty. He didn't like keeping secrets from Napoleon. Of course, Napoleon had kept his own, but in his case, it was definitely more understandable. 

Of course the brunet had known.

About _both_ him and B-52.

Yet, it seemed like he hadn't bothered to disclose the true nature of their feelings to the other, and for that, Brownie was indescribably grateful.

“Hey~” Brownie blinked as he found his vision obscured by something very, vibrantly red. Clicking his tongue, he lifted the hat up slightly to find Napoleon smiling at him, free of his usual headwear. Soft brown locks bounced as he nodded, exaggeratedly looking up and down Brownie.

“What’s this for?” Brownie murmured, pretending to be rather put off. Taking Napoleon’s large hat in his hands, he lowered his cat ears - just slightly, oh nope, no, just at the halfway point.

Step one towards mastering his feline features: check.

“You have such a serious look on your face!” Napoleon laughed, slapping Brownie’s arm playfully. “It’s after hours. The restaurant’s closed! Relax a little!”

“I am,” Brownie answered, turning around and expertly flinging Napoleon’s hat onto his nightstand, managing to hook it onto his lamp. The embers dimmed as the hat spun crazily around it.

“Goal!” Napoleon cheered, getting out his flag. At once, he swapped his hat for the cream colours, sticking the flag right in the middle of Brownie’s lamp. Brownie rolled his eyes in amusement. Leave it to Napoleon to carry around his prized treasures even in jim-jams.

“That marks your place to sleep for the night,” Brownie joked. Pretending to ignore Napoleon’s whines, he stepped over to his pitiful closet. Brownie paused as he placed his folded clothes on top of the shelves.

The maid dress was still there, as well as his assorted accessories. The shiny metallic collar caught the glow of the lamp. The red-and-white striped tie was rolled up beside it. And underneath, of course, was the cute, ruffled monochrome pleats of the dress. 

Brownie gulped, shutting the door a little harder than he meant to. Backing away, he stumbled right into something soft.

“What happened to your own hat, anyway?” 

Hands went to his wet dark hair. “I… my…” At once, Brownie realised that due to how distracted he had been earlier, he had neglected to retrieve his hat.

And it was currently still residing in... _B-52’s room._

Oh god. _Oh god._

Brownie didn't quite understand why the thought of going back to B-52’s room still filled him with a strange trepidation… but then again, he was completely new to the concept of relationships, woefully inexperienced. Maybe this was something that would lessen in time? 

As for the current pressing matter at hand, however, Brownie found himself on the receiving end of Napoleon’s worried gaze.

“Brownie, are you actually okay?” Brownie found a pale hand resting on his forehead. Napoleon’s face scrunched up as he sticked out his tongue. “Hmmm, no, but… you seem kinda off right now. You seem super zoned out. Maybe it was because you missed dinner?”

 _Oh please no no no no no -_ ran Brownie’s thoughts on autopilot as Napoleon raised a hand to his chin. 

“...speaking of which, where _were_ you?”

“I mean… food souls don't… need to eat?” Brownie grinned nervously. Sweat was trickling down the back of his neck again. At this rate, he’d have to take another shower. Why did Napoleon have to ask so many questions today? “I was… uh… in the kitchen?”

The look on Napoleon’s face told Brownie exactly what he thought of that. “You don't miss dinner without a good reason, Brownie. Also, did you really think that wasn't the first place I looked?”

Shaking his head, Brownie sighed. He replayed the whole disastrous, atrocious, horrendous situation in B-52’s room in his mind. Unconsciously, he found himself fast-forwarding to the end, and then Brownie couldn't help but smile. 

“...Brownie?”

Snapping back into reality, Brownie felt - Guilt? Fear? Was it better described as apprehension? Anxiety? - clutch at his chest like the claw of a lobster. Looking at his friend, the words wouldn't come. Brownie felt almost… dirty, sitting down there and practically eavesdropping on his friend, and… it didn't seem fair to Napoleon, somehow. Brownie got the feeling that what he had learned wasn't exactly something Napoleon had wanted him to know. Even B-52 hadn't gotten that information out of Napoleon on purpose.

...was _that_ why he was constantly pestering Brownie to make egg tarts? 

Refusing to speculate any further, Brownie muttered, “I… I heard everything,” bowing his head. His sensitive ears folded down, brushing against a few strands of his drying hair.

Napoleon’s frown shifted to a more curious one. “What do you mean?”

Brownie shifted closer to the edge of the closet. His back pressed painfully into one of the knobs, but Brownie ignored it, drawing his knees close to his chest. “So… the strange thing is… I was… hidden under B-52’s bed when you came in.” The honest truth didn't come easily to his tongue.

It took a few seconds for Napoleon to process this, and when he finally did, an uneasy grin spread across his face.

“Napoleon, I -”

“I’m so sorry!” he blurted out, flinging his arms around Brownie. Napoleon’s grasp was warm, but almost uncomfortably tight. Struggling slightly, Brownie allowed himself a brief moment of confusion.

“I - I… I didn't realise you were there! No, wait.” Napoleon shook his head, sending his fluffy brown hair further into Brownie’s eyes, making him blink. “No, but… you were actually there just now? I mean, Chocolate told me, but I… I didn't really believe it…”

Alarmed that Napoleon’s words were starting to trail off into hiccups, Brownie reached for the smaller male’s back, rubbing soothing circles along it. “Napoleon?”

Shoulders shaking, Napoleon replied, “I just… I don't know why, but I thought you couldn't be there, that you’d tell me first...”

“...tell?”

“I don't know, but I just… I just couldn't believe it, and now…” Napoleon drew away, revealing the telltale signs of tears watering in his eyes. “I’ve gone and ruined everything! Please, I’m sorry, forgive me!”

“...ruined?” Brownie echoed, his own voice sounding increasingly hysterical even to himself. He kneaded Napoleon’s shoulders gently, hoping to quieten his sobs.

“That’s why B-52 was acting so weird! I didn't even think, I was… and… and I’m dumb, and…”

“Napoleon!” Brownie shook the other food soul by his shoulders. “Napoleon, you didn't ruin anything! It’s fine! Please stop crying!”

His sharp little nose quivering, Napoleon asked tentatively, “...fine?”

“Yes, yes! It’s fine! Everything’s fine,” Brownie soothed. His hand continued the slow rubbing, and slowly, Napoleon’s sobs quietened to sniffles as his chest heaved for air. Relieved, Brownie continued, “...honestly, I have to thank you.”

“You’re not -” Napoleon hiccuped again and rubbed at his puffy red eyes. “Are you mad at me for keeping secrets from you?”

“Secrets?”

“I didn't tell you about B-52.” Napoleon fidgeted nervously under Brownie’s gaze. “I mean… I kinda wanted to say something, but then... I didn't think it’d be very nice.”

“No,” Brownie said gently as a warm feeling spread through his chest slowly. “I appreciate that, really. You didn't do anything. We… I…” Brownie felt his cheeks darken with a flush. “We managed to work things out eventually. You’re a good friend, Napoleon. Thank you for letting us figure it out on our own.”

Napoleon blinked away the water in his eyes then, still rubbing at his stuffy nose. His ruby red eyes seemed to glimmer faintly. For a moment, he didn't say anything, before he ducked his head and said, “Thank you,” in an uncharacteristically shy fashion. 

Brownie smiled to himself as he patted Napoleon on the head. It was rare to see him without his hat on. “...now, if I may ask, what's this about Pastel?” Brownie asked cautiously.

Napoleon all but fell on his side. “P-Pastel?” he stammered out. Instantly, he tried to hide his face in his hands. Awkwardly, Brownie just watched Napoleon start to roll around and around and around on the ground before finally collapsing on his back with a groan. _I know how it feels,_ Brownie reassured him mentally.

“You heard that too, huh?” Napoleon asked, his ruby eyes wide and his face more than a little red.

Brownie’s ears flicked. “Yeah. I’m... sorry if you didn't want me to know.” Nervously, he began picking at the nails on his fingers.

“I - I… I don't think I was ready yet,” came Napoleon’s muffled voice. “But yeah, like, I… guess I can't do anything about it now. So the only thing I wanna say is, kinda… sorta… thanks.” Napoleon flailed around like a fish out of water. “For not laughing at me.”

Brownie crawled over to the brunet, face down on his carpet and stubbornly refusing to look up. “Because I’m feeling particularly nice today, I promise not to make fun of you like you did,” Brownie said, chuckling a little as Napoleon just whined and kicked his legs.

“You’re being mean! Since when have I ever?”

“Literally just today.”

“Go away! I hate you.” Napoleon groaned and pointed in the wrong direction.

“Who’s room is this again?” Brownie chastised jokingly as he crawled into his bed. “In any case, if you need help, I will try my best.”

Napoleon sat back up just so Brownie could see the amber light reflecting in his ruby eyes as he rolled them. “Oh, silly. You guys took sooooo long! I wouldn’t even dream of asking you.”

Brownie was about to respond when he realised that he couldn't exactly deny the accusation. So with an incredibly stupid smile on his face, he nodded and extinguished the lamp.

“Night, Napoleon.”

“Night, Brownie~”

Brownie sighed in contentment, rolling over on his side. In the blackness of the night, he heard Napoleon shuffle around on the carpet to get comfortable. There had been a few times where he’d chastise his friend for it, insisting he take his bed, but as Napoleon had pointed out, both had slept in far worse conditions than this. 

Left alone to his own thoughts, Brownie wondered what tomorrow would hold for him and his new… _partner_.

.

“Brownie? You awake?”

“...Napoleon?”

“Hey, so does that mean you and B-52 have kissed?”

“ _Napoleon!_ ”


	25. Waking up Righter

B-52 felt like he was hovering on the edge of _something_ , fading in and out and…

There appeared to be some muffled sounds of footsteps against wood. Which meant… B-52 dragged his groggy eyelids open. It all came back to him in a rush - his room, the cool gray tones as morning sun spread over the horizon outside. Groaning, he blinked against the light streaming into his eye.

And there was a soft, but distinct rustling coming from the corner of his room.

Someone was here.

Someone had broken into his room.

It was _much_ too early for this shit, which meant precisely one someone it could possibly be.

“ _Chocolate!_ ” B-52 roared, seizing his cane resting on the night stand and storming over the dark shape. It froze in surprise, ears pricked up, and wait. Ears.

 _Cat_ ears.

B-52 froze, dropping his cane onto the ground and sticking his hand up in a weird, jerky fashion. “H-hi,” he stammered out, red shame clinging to him. Of all the possible scenarios he could have wound up in… of _course_ the very first day after he and Brownie had confessed their feelings to each other, he’d find some way to screw things up.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Fluffy cat ears still pricked up - that meant he had scared Brownie and he was looking for danger, right? - Brownie paused, scrambling to his feet. “B-52!” he said hurriedly, cat ears flicking about. “I’m really, awfully sorry! It’s just that I… I’m on room service duty today and I thought I’d stop by to pick my hat up cause I forgot it yesterday and you probably need to sleep and -”

Maybe it was because of his rude awakening, or the fact that his vision was still blurred from sleep at the edges, or that… Brownie. In any case, B-52 was having the utmost trouble trying to focus on what the butler was saying amidst his agitated gestures. The sheer length of his run-on speech seemed to lull B-52 into drowsiness again.

But right now, all that it mattered was Brownie didn’t seem angry. His sleepy systems running through the memories of yesterday told him one thing: Brownie liked him back. Romantically, in case there was any doubt left.

And Brownie was near.

B-52 was much too tired to see any problems in this arrangement.

Sleep dragged the request out of him, interrupting Brownie mid-panic. “Can you stay?” B-52 asked, a yawn making its way out of his system. Something at the back of his mind told him… something, but crossing the last few steps to where Brownie was standing on the fluffy carpet seemed like an excellent decision in his haze.

“Don’t worry.” B-52 closed his eyes, his sensors overwhelmed with the warmth and fresh, delicious scent of the other food soul. “Mm, Brownie. Soft…”

“B...B-52?”

And then B-52 snapped back to lucidity for the second time that morning when he realised that he was _snuggling_ Brownie right here, right then, shamelessly on the mussed up carpet. Petrified, B-52’s gaze trailed down to where his arms were looped around Brownie’s waist. B-52 gulped as he looked back up at Brownie’s wide-eyed gaze and half-folded ears.

_What the fuck am I doing?!_

Heart racing, B-52 tried to pull away. However, Brownie intercepted his actions by way of hesitantly running his fingers up B-52’s mechanical arm. The movements were unsure, but it didn’t stop the trail of fire that sparked in B-52’s belly.

“It’s okay,” Brownie said quietly. “You can…” Brownie coughed meaningfully, tugging once on B-52’s arm. “I guess… I don’t mind.”

His throat seemed suddenly parched. “I…” B-52 swallowed and tried to speak again. What could he even say like this? How did he keep getting himself into these situations? “I’m sorry for smothering you while half-asleep,” he finally settled on saying, his spine prickling with shame and… slightly more that had something to do with the fact that Brownie was absentmindedly tracing little circles on the back of his metal hand.

_He’s treating it like it’s something normal to have._

“You were never a morning person.” Brownie chuckled. His right ear angled towards B-52, as if it were an open invitation. Then B-52 abruptly recalled the petting, the purrs, and suddenly flustered and unable to look his friend - partner? No, more than that… _boyfriend_!? - in the eyes, B-52 pulled away. 

“Still, I shouldn’t have done that.” Shame this time. Definitely shame. “I’m sorry.”

There was silence before the telltale footsteps of Brownie’s boots clacking against wood drew nearer. “Today is our first… day,” Brownie said quietly, seemingly too bashful to say of _what_. Not that B-52 could blame him, either; he himself was having much trouble comprehending this simple concept of _he and Brownie were now together._

...‘simple’ may have been an inaccurate descriptor, however, as Brownie finished his sentence with, “How about we start by laying out some boundaries for each other?”

“...boundaries?”

“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable as well.”

“Comfort?” B-52 echoed, aware he was starting to sound like a broken record of a machine. “Me?”

“That’s right.” Brownie took a step closer, facing B-52 such that he had no choice but to look into the shorter food soul’s brilliant blue eyes. “Trust and respect. I would like to know what is and isn’t on the table.”

B-52 blinked as a feeling erupted inside of his chest like a flower in bloom. “You… care about that?”

“Of course,” Brownie replied, losing his stern demeanor. He reached up with a gloved hand. “I don’t think it would be possible for me not to care. I don’t ever want to see you unhappy.” He hesitated, lowering his hand before asking, “Is… is this fine?”

“Well, I… uh… go ahead.”

B-52 had been expecting Brownie to trace his fingers gently along his cheek like he had eagerly guided B-52 on doing yesterday. What he hadn’t been expecting was for Brownie to simply stroke a finger along his messy blond strands of hair, and… and oh, he was inching closer, and there was one of Brownie’s hands on his back… and...

“I didn’t even need to touch your ears this time,” B-52 joked weakly, even though what he actually wanted was to collapse in bed and squeal his ass off at the fact that Brownie was purring without any prompting whatsoever. It wasn’t as loud as the day before, nor did it last quite as long, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was that it was because of B-52, and then there was the most important matter of all: Brownie’s purrs had _varying degrees_ to them.

B-52 was going to short circuit trying to collect them all.

“I think…” B-52 gulped, trying to get his damn throat to work. “Maybe we can… discuss stuff later?”

Brownie’s black ears pricked up, swarming B-52’s vision. “Of course,” he replied, stepping away. B-52 was almost disappointed at the loss - almost, as soon as he saw the look of longing in Brownie’s gaze.

“Are you free?”

Brownie closed his eyes. “I’ve cleaned, dusted, washed the sheets, as well as helped to set the tables,” he recited from memory. His eyes fluttered open. “Your room was my last stop, since everyone else was already up. I have approximately…” Brownie glanced at the clock hung up behind B-52. “Thirty-one minutes until the restaurant opens.”

“Enough?”

“That seems like ample time.”

B-52’s pulse quickened. The sleep was completely gone now. More than half an hour. That was good. That was perfect. Time alone with Brownie was currently in the top spot of things on his wishlist. Stepping forward, he cautiously placed a hand on Brownie’s side.

“Right. Let’s discuss.”


	26. A Crash Course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: writes fluff  
> Me: how do i make this as boring as humanly possible
> 
> For real, all i can seem to write is really, really slow burn ^^;

First thing on Brownie’s itenary to keep him sane today had been to walk into B-52’s room, retrieve his hat, and then run back out like an absolute madman.

So _maybe_ his plan had been flawed from the start.

It all worked out fine in the end, though; one case of mistaken identity later and Brownie found himself once again being invited to sit on B-52’s bed.

Speaking of which. Chocolate. Chocolate definitely needed a stern talking to… and a word of thanks, Brownie soon realised, turning to look at a incredibly awkward-looking B-52. Metal fingers picked at the uneven folds of his collar as crimson coloured his cheeks. Frankly, Brownie wasn't fairing much better.

Brownie soon realised that though it had been him to come up with the idea, he didn't exactly have a handy list available. All he had to go off on was the _novel_ Sanma had caught him reading. Vivid descriptions of tenderness and warm, light feelings ran through his mind and for a moment Brownie had to steady himself. He’d have to accomplish this task via trial and error. 

Gulping down saliva to quell his nervousness by a bit, Brownie started with, “Humans have several different ways to show their affections, like...” Napoleon’s jibe rang in his mind: _“Hey, so does that mean you and B-52 have kissed?”_ Flustered, Brownie attempted to direct his mind away from the very dangerous uncharted prospect that was kisses and into the much safer territory that was, “...hugging.”

“I’m still sorry about that.” B-52 flushed and attempted to bury himself underneath the sheets like a hermit, and honestly, Brownie found this more than a little adorable. 

“The humans seem to call the action a variety of names,” Brownie said as a random fact. Why was he doing this? Was it important? Maybe, there was some small, slight distinction between them? Maybe in order to get the most out of this he had to name and list every single instance? Brownie strained to understand the difference. He and Napoleon had ‘hugged’ plenty of times before, but today marked the first time B-52 had taken such an initiative.

It had surprised Brownie at the moment, but now as he spotted the one blue eye peeking out between the covers, the memory spread a slow, golden warmth through his veins. “...a snuggle, or cuddle I think, is what it’s called,” Brownie finished nervously. He found himself fidgeting on the sheets again, picking nervously at where his gloves met skin.

B-52 had a concentrated frown on his face. “You’re right,” he announced. There seemed to be a flash of regret in his eyes before he blinked and it was gone… replaced with deep guilt and sorrow. “I have seen humans doing the thing you described.”

Brownie hesitated. “Really? Where?”

“...when I was… them, they… they clung to each other like they were the only ones who mattered, and… I understand the difference now that you’ve brought it up.” The blue of his eyes seemed dimmer now. “It was much more intimate, Brownie. I didn't think much if it then, but I…” Choking on his words, B-52 turned away. “And I don't deserve to take part in these so-called ‘human’ actions.”

Brownie gulped. Swallowed. Felt the lump trickling down his throat. “That doesn't seem right,” Brownie finally said. B-52 was mistaken. 

It was probably his fault, being so careless with the use of the term ‘human’ when he knew very well just what kind of hangups B-52 had, and would possibly carry with him till they disappeared from existence. That was why B-52 had made such a mistaken connection, Brownie reasoned.

But even so, there was no way whatever Brownie had read in the novel could be related to - Brownie felt a chill run down his spine - humans who knew that their final moments had come.

_What is B-52 like?_

B-52 wasn't like that. Not now, not anymore.

Approaching the bundled-up, blanketed blond as delicately as he would a stray animal, Brownie’s hand inched slowly to B-52’s. Ideally, he’d reach for B-52’s mechanical arm, but B-52 had buried it under the covers as if he never wanted to look at it again. Figuring this was the best he could do for now, Brownie asked gently, “May I touch?”

“...touch what you want. I’m a machine, so I don't care.”

Brownie knew what that quiet voice meant: he had inadvertently set off one of B-52’s troubled moods. Maybe it was good that this issue had come up as early as it did, because something told Brownie it had to be addressed. At least it came up in their now slightly off-topic mutually agreed upon very pleasant discussion, so Brownie could cross mentioning ‘human’ things off the list. Or maybe until B-52 was ready, because Brownie couldn’t stand the thought of him blaming himself like this forever.

“Machines don't feel regret,” Brownie insisted as he touched the tip of B-52’s index finger. “You’re not a machine to me, B-52.”

B-52 looked up at Brownie, then back down again, assumedly where his hidden hand was.

“May I?”

B-52 just did nothing but look up at Brownie, his bottom lip quivering slightly. 

Maybe this wasn’t enough? Knowing just what B-52 had to deal with, Brownie had wanted to talk to him for some time. He had just never found a golden opportunity to; every time Brownie looked, he hesitated, telling himself that B-52 was at peace, that he wouldn’t drudge up the past that the other food soul didn’t seem keen to remember.

“You’re not a machine,” Brownie repeated, choosing his next words with extreme care. “Perhaps you once were, but you’ve since grown beyond that, and I when I look at you, I don’t see a machine.” Brownie paused, suddenly aware of the nerves that seized his heart and threatened to never give it back. “I see you,” he finished, suddenly breathless and more than a little nervous.

B-52’s eye closed, then blinked open again, restoring some of its usual bright blue. Brownie wasn’t a fool; he could see from the way B-52 was taking an extraordinarily long time to inch his hand forward that the blond wasn’t past his horrible misdeed just yet. And frankly, Brownie couldn’t blame him. He was a butler, after all. He would do anything in his power to offer his partner his services.

It was worth it in the end, when B-52’s hand found his again and gently, gingerly, he laced them together.

“...is this something I should ask about as well?” _Do you like it?_ remained the unspoken question in B-52’s gaze.

“Holding hands.” Brownie was sure his brain had deserted him, when now all he could think about was the warmth and softness of B-52’s hand and the fact that he was melting inside. “A lovely pastime, I could say,” Brownie croaked out with much difficulty. Apparently the only thing Brownie was capable of now was reciting facts and embarrassingly boring statements.

“You did this.” Curious, B-52 laced their fingers together once more. “The... last time.”

“I suppose so,” Brownie said, his statements getting more and more formal the higher the amount of times the information _B-52 is showing me affection_ circled around and around his brain. _His fingers are long,_ Brownie thought, and soon after collapsed in a fit of giggles.

“Brownie?”

“Nothing,” Brownie gasped. “It’s just…” Brownie spied the curious light in B-52’s eyes and the look of amazement on his face. “It’s you,” he replied. His cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling so much.

“It’s me?”

“Yes?”

“I, ah, about that, uhhh… I don’t understand?” Brownie had gotten B-52 to blush and fumble at something, anything, to distract himself from the trembles in his hand. “I’m still not familiar with any of this,” he said, finally settling on picking at a fold on his pants. 

Brownie felt assured that for all he talked about being unsure, B-52 chose to place his trust in him. He would show B-52 his trust wasn’t misplaced. Now, there was also the teeny-tiny sliver of confidence that came along with both of them admitting they had no idea what they were doing.

“Me neither.” _But maybe that’s alright._

“...I’m not familiar with any of these feelings.”

“Me neither,” Brownie repeated with a giddy smile.

“But you like it?”

“I like you,” Brownie said, coming down from his high for just a moment. “I would like to perform the aforementioned activities with you.” And then Brownie promptly kicked himself in the head. What was he _doing_ , it sounded like he was treating all of this as a convoluted science experiment, and he really, truly didn’t know what to say -

“So… hand holding. Hugging?”

“Cuddling.” _For now._ Yes. That was good. Brownie would show B-52 what was different. Putting away the nasty elephant in the room for now, Brownie shifted slightly before he realised that for some reason Operation Cuddle B-52 was making him too worked up to actually go through with it. 

Amazing.

It was day one and Brownie had already tasted failure.

Relief came in the form of B-52 also just sitting there as if he was petrified, except for the fact that he was blustering and blushing and barking out apologies frantically and “Uhhh, I…”

Brownie realised he could hear his heart pounding in his feline ears. Giving one of them a flick, he said, “I wouldn’t mind… whatever it is that you do with my ears either.”

Brownie needed to make a list. Brownie needed to get his thoughts in order. Brownie needed to go to work. Probably. Maybe. This discussion was getting all jumbled up and unclear, and it was partially his fault and partially that of his brain. So of course, the next course of action he took was to impulsively sidle up to B-52 and place one arm on his shoulder.

Brownie just wanted that warmth he felt before. It was strange. Had he always been this loving of summery climates? It didn’t matter, however, one he trailed his hand down to B-52’s side and loop the other around the blond. His ears felt ticklish as they brushed against a few strands of B-52’s light blond strands. He closed his eyes, and… there it was again. Warm, soft…

He liked this, quite a lot, in fact.

“If we’re still doing this,” B-52 said thickly as this time he returned the gesture, “I… like hearing you purr.”

Throat vibrating from the overload of affection he felt, Brownie took the opportunity to slowly, slowly, ease his head into the crook of B-52’s neck. Sniffing, Brownie noticed the faint scent of engine oil, the faint whirring of cogs and gears.

And B-52 was letting him.

B-52 was letting him.

For a while all of his responsibilities and duties disappeared, and here he was. Not Brownie the butler, not Brownie the gunslinger, just… Brownie. Brownie, who was with B-52. And B-52 hadn’t pushed him away. “If you want to hear me purr more,” Brownie said softly, teasingly, “You’ll need to keep me happy.”

Brownie could hear the laughter in B-52’s tone. “What a shame that’s already at the top of my priorities,” he replied, hand wandering over to Brownie’s ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats you guys, youve finally lasted without having anyone else stick their nose in for once :,D


	27. Emphasis on Crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PshHhh but where’s the fun in being uninterrupted?

“Please excuse me, but Brownie, Master Attendant has ordered us to -”

 _Knock knock._ Brownie’s eyes snapped open a second before the door creaked open and “- to go on an exploration in the North Islands, as they are… oh, oh my.” Black Tea coughed in a way that implied she genuinely hadn’t accounted for this situation.

Scrambling to make himself presentable (he had absolutely _not_ fallen asleep thirty minutes before the restaurant opened in B-52’s warm, soft cuddleable presence), Brownie hurriedly asked, “Ah, yes, Master Attendant what?” as he adjusted the roll of his sleeves. B-52 for his part just lay there amidst the sheets, his face frozen in an expression of _oh-for-fuck’s-sake-not-this-again._

“...Master Attendant said they were submitting some guild applications and therefore might not be able to help us.” Black Tea blinked. Mercifully for Brownie’s sanity, she decided not to comment.

“Yes, yes of course! I really am awfully sorry for this!” Ears flicking, Brownie settled on looking at the traitorous room lock. Could have sworn they had locked it, but… perhaps not, in their eagerness? In any case, embarrassment pricking at his cheeks as he fixed his hair, Brownie decided this was quite likely something else to put at the top of his list: _safe and secured_. Always.

Black Tea looked between Brownie and B-52. Her lips twitched in mild amusement before she said, “It looks like your injuries are healing well, B-52. Maybe you can rejoin our team in a few days. Would you two -” she coughed, “like to… talk, maybe? I can leave for a while. There’s no rush. We will be waiting for you when you’re ready.”

Brownie was really, really glad that his embarrassment was regulated to anxious picking at his gloves; he couldn’t imagine the massive teasing that would come from anyone else being able to see red flush on his skin. With a small voice, he coughed, saying, “Thank you, Mistress Black Tea. If… if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll never mind.” Concerned eyes swept the room once more. “If you two need help, you can always approach me.” Hand resting on the doorknob, Black Tea nodded and took her leave.

The slam seemed surprisingly loud in her wake. Ears flattened against his skull, Brownie turned to face his partner with a sheepish look. “Why does this keep happening to us?”

“Because everyone here is a stupid fuck with no concept of privacy.” Snorting dismissively, B-52’s fingers twitched, as if itching to reach out for his cane. 

“I’m sure Mistress Black Tea isn’t like that.”

B-52 regarded Brownie a few moments more. Brownie had begun to scuff his feet along the ground when he finally heard B-52 say, “You respect Black Tea a lot, don’t you?”

“Of course! She’s so elegant, so refined, and she knows exactly how to deal with any difficulties thrown her way.” Brownie’s ears flicked excitedly. He had to be forgiven, but on the topic of the gun-wielding lady, he had nothing else but praise for her and her capabilities. “Her combat technique is impeccable. I could stand to learn many things from her.”

B-52’s eyes narrowed, perhaps in thought. “I see.”

“Oh! And I have a mission.” Brownie stole a glance behind him. Black Tea had left the door close. His heart rate increased exponentially with the knowledge of what he was about to attempt - with a hurried look around as if looking for intruders, Brownie stepped forward and hugged B-52 quickly, tightly.

“I don’t like being apart from you.” 

“...me neither,” B-52 admitted, hooking one arm around Brownie’s waist. It seemed in the course of half an hour, the blond had already picked up the essentials of hugging. Hopefully the next few times they wouldn’t be quite as awkward, and that would be something for Brownie to look forward to.

“I’ll come back soon.” Pressing his lips to his forehead, Brownie left the room. 

He was going to look back, promise - except he suddenly realised that he had _kissed B-52’s forehead_ and for a moment Brownie stood tense, rigid, and then he promptly buried his head in his hands.

_Oh my god._

“Ready to go?”

Brownie’s blue eye peeked out to find Black Tea peering at him curiously. Forcing himself upright, he ran his hands through his hair one last time and nodded. Right, Brownie, this was a mission, this absolutely wasn’t the time nor place to be sitting here getting all loopy over accidental forehead kisses and how B-52 would react to them _oh god what if he scared B-52 away._

Maybe he had, maybe he hadn’t, but for now Brownie rearranged his panic into a neutral expression. “Ready for takeoff,” he said, nodding.

Black Tea gave him a puzzled look. “That’s great, but where’s your weapon?”

“...my weapon?”

So _maybe_ Brownie deserved a proper kick in the boot.

.

“I’m betting it was Brownie.”

“No way, you don’t think it’s B-52?”

Miso laughed, shaking his head and letting several untied strands of hair spill over his shoulder. “Trust me, that B-52 wouldn’t know flirting if it hit him in right in the head.”

“Ah, young love.” Chocolate sighed dramatically, emptying the contents of his morning milk. “What a shame, he should have come to me! I would have given that cocktail some advice in getting his… _just desserts_.”

There was a collective groan at the table. Unamused, Coffee reached up and pulled Chocolate’s hat over his eyes.

“Coffee!”

“Drink your milk.”

“Coffee!”

“Anyway,” Gluten continued with a slight shake of her head, “B-52 seems more forward, don’t you think?”

“Forwardness isn’t anything when you’re absolutely thick in the head,” Chocolate grumbled, spinning his mug round and round on the table. Realising he was on the receiving end of Coffee’s side-eye, he whined, “What?!”

“Nothing.” 

“Hey, hey, hey, so you mean to say that they were maybe doing something _lewd_ last -”

“I don’t mean to interrupt your pleasant conversation,” Steak snarked as he walked by with dishes piled high on his tray, “but I would like to kindly ask all of you to shut the fuck up before either Brownie or B-52 comes and kicks our asses.” The redhead winced. “My horns still hurt.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Gluten smirked and gave Steak a flirtatious wink. “Would you like me to make it even worse?”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Steak!” Miso cackled as he dumped his dish on Steak’s tray. Steak gave the sinful monk an incredibly irritated look as Miso carried on babbling. “Besides, we aren’t spreading rumors around this time! You can’t forbid us from talking about them entirely! Not when their affair is so…” Miso let out a dramatic breath as he fished out his holy scriptures. “ _Delicious._ ”

Pouting, Chocolate gave Steak his best puppy dog eyes. “Come on now. What’s the harm in a little -” a wink, “ _fun_?”

“A lot of harm, actually,” Steak replied, sounding strangely distant, eyes seemingly fixated on something in the far distance.

“Surely even you’ve wondered why Brownie of all food souls missed dinner yesterday?” 

“No, I haven’t, and I never will, Miso,” Steak said, choosing to stare at the dishes on his tray.

“Ah of course, that’s because… you lack _imagination_.” 

“Goodbye.” Steak coughed and shrunk away.

“Guys,” Coffee piped up, adjusting his glasses. “Keep quiet.”

“Why?” Gluten asked, a coy smile on her face. “Could it be… you are jealous?” Her fingertips traced her whip gingerly. And then stopped, frozen, as soon as everyone at the table registered an ominous looming presence among them.

Hair tousled and exposed eye blinking from sleep, B-52 managed a half-hearted scowl of disdain. “Ugh, I hate this as much as you do, but... is this seat taken?”


	28. Dine-and-Discourse

B-52 didn’t have proof they had been talking about him, but from the alarmed looks and shifting of their bodies, he had a pretty strong suspicion. 

And the fact that Miso had gulped and ran away in an instant. B-52 stared after the fleeing shape. Yep. It was going to be a long day.

“What a coincidence. Looks like there’s one left,” B-52 sneered as he took the other food soul’s seat, taking care to slam the tray only slightly harder than usual; otherwise he’d get dirty looks from Pudding on duty. Ordinarily he wouldn’t go a hairs breadth near the monk’s filthy presence, but he literally had no other choice. 

Sometimes, it was annoying that Master Attendant asked the food souls to eat when the restaurant opened as a way of making their restaurant seem popular, in B-52’s opinion, because it meant he had to face absolute idiots first thing in the morning. Adding on to this fact was that he was already in a bad mood, what with being reminded that Brownie had to be away and not here and whatever and he… B-52 subconsciously rubbed at the spot on his forehead. Mercifully, he had the good sense to hide his smile behind his hand.

But Brownie wasn’t here now. 

B-52 wanted him to be here.

Napoleon wasn’t here either, which meant B-52 had been forced to scramble for a free chair at one of the restaurant’s crowded tables. Being forced to huddle among mere acquaintances like a pack of sardines made B-52 realise that he really truly wasn’t like the other food souls, who didn’t have a mechanical tinge to their presence. With a lingering glance at Yellow Wine using chopsticks to give a dumpling to Jiuniang, B-52 resigned himself to his fate. Damn it, he already hated his tablemates and their stupid faces.

This morning didn’t bide well for all who stood in B-52’s way.

Angrily, he stabbed his calamari and downed it in one gulp. Master Attendant’s cooking wasn’t bad, but he wished Brownie had made it. Damn it, he wish Brownie were here. He could feel the others’ eyes all on him. B-52 wouldn’t let them see the way self-consciousness travelled through his wires, made its way through his veins.

Of fucking course they just had to be the very same food souls he had beaten up just a few days ago. With exactly no concept of respect for privacy to boot. B-52 squared his shoulders back, adamantly refusing to let them see him admit even a speck of weakness. That would be absolutely detrimental. He couldn’t, wouldn't let them pinpoint and exploit them.

And of double fucking course, a certain dark food soul leaned forward, a stray strand of hair falling into his eyes. Even this early, Chocolate looked marvellous. B-52 wanted to punch him in the face.

“B-52, how was yesterday’s rendezvous?” Chocolate asked with a cheeky wink.

“I don’t speak Napoleon,” B-52 said flatly. Stab. _Munch._ Maybe he could blame the red on his face on the spiciness of the calamari. His thoughts drifted back to the softness and the warmth, and just as suddenly B-52 forbade himself from wandering into dangerous territory as long as he was surrounded by enemies.

Chocolate sighed exaggeratedly. “Fine. How was your… date?”

“I’m afraid you’re a goddamn moron. There are no dates at this table.” With a completely straight face, B-52 reached for the complimentary chilli sauce on the table and dunked the entire contents into his food. Taking a bite, B-52 chewed before screwing his face up. His throat burned, but it didn’t bother B-52 much.

He glared at the obnoxious grins on the other food souls’ faces. Maybe if he ate enough chilli he could burn their smiles right off.

“You should have told me you liked things… spicy,” Gluten purred seductively.

He hated this. Why were they so _loud_? You’d think the hustle and bustle around them would drown the other food souls out. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying not to lose my appetite here,” B-52 remarked as he continued to unleash self-imposed hell on his mouth.

“Stop being so difficult, _mon ami_.” Chocolate laughed as B-52’s eye twitched in annoyance. He hated this. His hand reached instinctively out for his weapon before he realised that he had the sense to leave it behind in his room. Grudgingly, B-52 sat and endured the other food soul’s amusement at his helpless state.

“Have you received… the devil’s gift?”

“ _No._ ”

Coffee and Chocolate exchanged glances before wide grins split across their faces. Gluten leaned forward in interest. Annoyed, B-52 watched as the other food souls took their time exchanging fabrics of gossip. It _was_ him they had been talking about. It had to be. _And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out about what,_ B-52 thought darkly. 

For a few moments, he allowed himself to give into the temptation of plotting sweet, sweet torturous murder… actually, Gluten would probably like that. B-52 shuddered as he pictured her looking at him with that usual sinfully innocent look. Disgust coloured his features. _No thank you!_

As if Coffee, Chocolate and Gluten held positions of authority, all three simultaneously wheeled around to face B-52. Suddenly, a hand pounded in front of the blond. Staring in shock, B-52 had just enough time to be grateful that his half-eaten food was still alive before Coffee and his big goofy glasses filled his vision.

“ _Are you ready to sink into the abyss_?”

B-52 stood still, surprised. Coffee was alright, wasn’t he? Right? So far he hadn’t had any problems with the other blond. Napoleon had enjoyed visiting Café Satan with him and Brownie in the past, and in that time he hadn’t gotten any shit from him. 

...so Coffee was fine, right?

Chocolate joined Coffee on his right, smiling and giving the blond man a slap on his back, plummeting any hopes of Coffee not being influenced by Chocolate or sticking his nose into B-52’s business to the bottom of said abyss.

“We’re taking you out, little boy.” Gluten drew herself up to her full height to emphasise this. To B-52’s irritation, this meant that being just a teensy bit taller than him gave her the _gall_ to flick his forehead with a finger.

B-52 absolutely did not growl like a mad dog. Recoiling from the touch, he rubbed at the same spot with a hand. Damn it. Brownie had kissed him there. Now it was contaminated with Spicy Gluten’s filth. Oh, and Brownie had kissed him. Had actually kissed him.

B-52 only realised he was ducking his head out of a sudden wave of shyness when Chocolate asked, “Feeling the heat?” and all three burst out into hysterical laughter like it was the funniest goddamn thing they had ever heard.

“...going out? Where?” This was the worst day of his life. Ever. Maybe if he squeezed his eyes shut he’d be back in his room with his partner by his side. Even if they weren't partners now, per se, because after years he had gotten so familiar with that particular title. Brownie’s partner. B-52’s partner. That was simply natural.

Faintly, B-52 realised that there seemed to be something pulling at his brown slacks. How troublesome. He’d deal with it later. He gulped down the last of his calamari. Good, B-52 supposed. He’d have to eat more dishes with chilli.

With an audible snap, B-52 found himself on his back. Pain blossomed through his body, especially where metal met flesh. The area where his wings were currently missing from throbbed. Blurrily, B-52 demanded, “What the hell?!”

“Oh, do stop that. You’re causing a ruckus,” Gluten said innocently. Except B-52 was all tied up in her whip. Completely tied up. Cursing to himself, B-52 immediately began tugging and pulling at the whip, but it greatly restricted his mobility. Without his cane, B-52 couldn't free himself. The damn thing wouldn't snap no matter how much B-52 pulled at it.

“ _I’ll kill you._ ”

“Oh! Right. Thanks for the reminder,” Chocolate said in an overly cheery tone. Ignoring B-52’s struggles and protests, he turned to Coffee. “Quick. Go to his room and confiscate his cane.”

“I hate you! I fu -”

“Language,” Gluten said, painfully politely.

B-52 spat, a string of choice curse words running through his mind like code. “I have an _extremely strong dislike_ for you lovely people as of right now,” he hissed. Humiliation was starting to settle in as food souls and customers alike gaped at the sight before them - a mechanical food soul pulling at the restraints, being dragged across the floor of the restaurant. Even Pudding had paused with his pen mid-click, his eyes wide in astonishment.

“God help you, because the instant I’m coming back, I am going to kill all of you until you are dead!”

Gluten giggled. “Ooh. Kinky.” 

It was not a pleasant sound.

There really was no use protesting this. When idiots decided on something, they would always follow through. With defeat and shame settling into his body, B-52 groaned and let himself be dragged along painfully on the ground, to wherever his next destination might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F


	29. Step One: Preheat your Oven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exams are finally over so I can begin concentrating on this fic again. I’m sorry about the radio silence for a month, hopefully now I can write more often. Though I’m ship neutral I really find this story fun to work with!

After this morning’s incident and the second most disastrous thing he had ever encountered in his immortal life (at least in Brownie’s current opinion), the butler was having quite a lot of trouble looking Black Tea in the eye. 

The first most disastrous thing, of course, being trapped under the bed wide-eyed and heart thumping along to the beats of Napoleon skedaddling out of B-52’s room.

Or maybe he should count the rumors before that too, but… hmmm, they weren’t exactly an incident, per se. _Most disastrous recurring everyday events,_ Brownie conceded. Mortification burned at the back of his mind.

Then again, maybe the First Disastrous Incident hadn’t been so bad after all, and Brownie flushed yet again, and do stop doing that, Brownie, but… B-52’s hand was so soft. That didn’t mean he didn’t love B-52’s metallic parts just as much; Brownie’s hand brushed against his gun as he continued on, deep in thought. 

While still trying to avoid Black Tea like the plague.

Black Tea’s movements were nimble and gentle, elegant and patient, flowing like the breeze, or perhaps some flower petals fluttering around in it. Brownie, with his uncoordinated and distracted movements, currently didn’t feel like he deserved to talk to someone with such an air around her, much less be in the same team as her. Hopefully B-52 would recover soon, and then he could take his place again. B-52 always moved with a certain grace when he was in the air, despite wings made of metal scraps and bits.

Her hands never left the pistols near her waist. Brownie watched in admiration as Black Tea managed to look even tripping over a tree root look dignified. Bamboo chortled, his voice once again stirring up a ruckus loud enough for several birds to startle, taking to the air.

Tossing Bamboo a cold look, Milk hurried over to Black Tea, hands outstretched. “Are you okay?”

Steadying herself, Black Tea replied, “I’m fine.”

“...if you’re sure,” Milk said uncertainly, taking her place in the middle of the group once again. The path was small and narrow, and the food souls all had to squeeze through like ants. Brownie’s hand brushed against his blaster. Idly, he wondered what they might find here.

“Brownie, something seems to be troubling you.”

“Ah, I…” Startled, Brownie’s ears angled in the direction of Black Tea’s voice. He looked up briefly before huddling in on himself again. “I’m sorry for what you had to witness this morning,” he admitted yet again.

“No problem.” To Brownie’s surprised ear flick, Black Tea chuckled. “My lips are sealed. I understand the embarrassment and frustrations of beginning a relationship anew.”

“Y-yeah.” Brownie wanted to shrink down and hide amongst the tall grass of the jungle. Here was Mistress Black Tea, probably thinking of him as an extremely unprofessional idiot.

“In fact,” Black Tea fondly remembered, “I’d say Milk and I have gotten into rather similar situations in the past.”

“Really?” At that, Brownie perked up before he awkwardly lowered his ears down. Anecdotal evidence, that was what he really needed, but could he really impose on Black Tea and her girlfriend in this way? It seemed rather a private matter for all involved, and Brownie didn’t wish to be a bother.

Black Tea seemed to notice his hesitation. “Oh. Brownie, don’t worry. I think you’re a rather reliable food soul,” she started, and some part of Brownie was a little concerned that his numerous slip ups had been noticed by the Mistress. Then she added with a little wink, “but even gears need oiling from time to time. Why don't you ask me a few questions as long as we're here? I’m not a foolproof guide, but I’m sure I could be of some help to you.”

“Ah, actually…” Brownie’s cheeks burned at the memory of that one novel he had found back in Master Attendant’s archives. Come to think of it, why did they even own such a thing? Nevermind. It wasn't any of his business, and anyway, “...you might be a very large help.”

“Alright, but shall we first come to a mutual agreement to keep this between us?”

“You needn’t have asked,” Brownie replied with a shudder, the menacing grins of Chocolate and Coffee standing out in his memory like an ink bleed amongst white sheets.

“I take it that you are thinking of Chocolate?”

Brownie blinked, then chuckled. “Read my mind, Mistress.”

“Believe me, Chocolate has always been a pain in our side,” Black Tea replied with amusement dancing across her relaxed features. “Sometimes I’m positive that he participates in such matters out of self-denial.”

“Self-denial?”

Black Tea nodded. “I understand you might not want to hear anything too incriminating after the nasty rumors spread about, but take it from me, this specific snippet is true. You aren’t the only dark-skinned brunet with feelings for a certain blond.”

Brownie flushed, but luckily his battle instincts kept him from walking right into a tree. “Ah… I-I see?”

“It’s alright,” Black Tea said kindly. This time she kept a hand on Brownie to keep him from teetering too far off course. “I had… rather the same feelings for Milk.” She rolled her eyes. “That Chocolate chose to capitalise on for his own amusement. Luckily he was stopped by Coffee and Tiramisu before things got too far out of hand.”

“Ah.” Awkwardly, Brownie rubbed at his arm where he had bumped into some foliage. _What happened to my multitasking skills?_ was soon followed by _My hands are... shaking,_ and then finally with “If I may ask, how did you…” Making several frantic hand gestures, Brownie finished with, “...focus?”

Black Tea paused for a while in thought. “How do you make your entire universe stop revolving around that certain someone?”

“Ah - I… n-no, that’s a little… little too specific?” Brownie stammered out. Maybe he was blushing so hard that red could be seen. It certainly felt like he had been thrown into the oven and been heated up to a million degrees. _Yet, it’s true. Main concern, in fact,_ Brownie told himself. _I really ought to stop getting distracted. How am I to perform as well as I can like this?_

“...there’s no real way,” Black Tea said with an affectionate look in the direction of Milk, who was currently watching the playful Tom Yum closely. The purple-haired food soul frolicked around excitedly, eager to try his punching tricks on any and every tree they came across, and Bamboo seemed to be doing his boisterous part in encouraging him. Milk’s expressionless gaze melted as she spotted Black Tea looking over. With a little smile that accentuated the beauty mark on her cheek, Milk then turned to watch over the little kid and the even littler kid.

“But it does fade in a while,” Black Tea said, to which Brownie sighed in relief at the good news. “I know it’s new and exciting and you want to spend all the time with B-52 you can, but I don’t recommend letting your relationship get in the way of others,” she added, a quirked eyebrow as a show of concern. “No, no, I don’t mean to imply that you are, but perhaps if you think you’ve been spending a little too much time with B-52, you can ask Napoleon to accompany you. There’s nothing wrong with needing a little break now and again, and of course, friendships are just as important as any relationship.”

“Napoleon,” Brownie repeated, deep in thought. _It was Napoleon who got us together. He’s a good friend. I don’t wish to neglect him._ Standing up straighter, he readjusted the large load on his back. “I see. Thank you, Mistress Black Tea.”

“It was my pleasure,” Black Tea replied with a gentle smile. 

.

“Napoleon!” Brownie called, stepping into the target practice area. Though he was pretty sure he hadn’t been neglecting his friend just yet, the talk with Black Tea had produced a little itch that hanging out with his friend was guaranteed to scratch. The butler took a look around the open area, flushing a little at the thought that he and B-52 had agreed to meet here, in some indefinite point in the near future. 

Then the rosy glow around his world was wiped clean as he realised his friend had his brows furrowed in the most furious glare Brownie had seen in years.

Napoleon looked combat ready.

Ready to _kill_.

His ears twitched in alarm. Cautiously creeping closer, Brownie found the other food soul’s brown hair ruffled at the ends, a fire blazing in his ruby eyes. His rifle clicked as he aimed at the furthest target the practice range supplied.

_Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang._

Each and every one of the bullets met the center. It had been pierced so thoroughly that it almost looked like a comically large Christmas donut. Another day, Brownie might have laughed at the sheer absurdity of Napoleon carving out a permanent likeness of his sugar addiction - in the practice area of all places! - but today Napoleon clearly meant _business_.

“Napoleon?” Brownie called, concerned, the fierceness of Napoleon’s gaze startling. At his voice, Napoleon blinked before his rigid stance relaxed, but only a little. Slowly, Napoleon turned his head round. Brownie was expecting his usual cheer and a slam-tackle, but all Napoleon offered was a half-hearted smile, lips quirked at the edges but obviously not reaching his eyes. 

“Hey, Brownie,” he said. Maybe it was quiet because of the distance between them, or maybe it was Napoleon being serious for once, but nevertheless it did nothing to lessen a certain weight in his voice. It reverberated in the stifling silence, making Brownie’s heart clench in fear.

“Napoleon… what’s wrong?”

“Oh, uh…” The sheathing of his rifle only served to alleviate a portion of Brownie’s worries. Brownie watched as Napoleon shifted from foot to foot, nervously wringing his hands together. Whatever it was, it definitely didn’t seem easy to get over with. Finally, after a decade’s worth of ‘uhhh’s and ‘ummm’s, Napoleon gulped and weakly offered, “Uh… Coffee, Chocolate and Gluten kidnapped your boyfriend.”

“B-boyfriend?” Brownie stammered, eyes wide and ears flicking rapidly, before his brain caught up to the rest of Napoleon’s words and it slowly sank in. “ _Kidnapped_?!” Brownie whisper-screeched, grabbing a startled Napoleon by the shoulders.

 _This must be a record or something._ Brownie ears flattened against his skull. The paralysis of his stunned emotions faded away, to be replaced by a gently twitching annoyance that was slowly but surely leaking its way out of the dam. _First Napoleon blurts everything out, then I mess up in front of Mistress Black Tea, and now_ this _?_

“B-52!?” Brownie asked, feeling like he was at an approximately 99% chance to break into hysterics. “You mean him, right?”

“Who else?” Napoleon joked weakly, eyes not quite meeting Brownie’s own.

_...B-52? Why?_

This was horrific, but what had Brownie even more mortified was the fact that he had failed to plan and account for such a situation (which would now be termed the Third Disastrous Incident), despite knowing just how meddling Chocolate could be. Brownie wasn’t familiar with Gluten, but he certainly did have an opinion of her now. Still, a part of him felt just a tiny little flame flicker at the thought of the usually responsible café owner Coffee of all food souls springing this on B-52.

And of all things, why oh _why_ did they have to choose to _kidnap_ him? It didn’t make any sense! What were they even thinking? Trembling, Brownie looked at his feet, clenching his gloved fists tightly to his sides. Black shrouded his eyes, shadowing his already dark complexion even further.

“Brownie.” Napoleon cocked his rifle, and it made a clicking noise. He pushed his hat back a little, his anger melting into concern. “Are you okay? Say something.” 

“...Napoleon, please excuse my language,” Brownie said calmly, “but what the absolute _fuck_.” 


	30. Step Two: Grease and Flour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, welcome to my fic, where chaos happens approximately...every chapter.

It was getting increasingly difficult to think of the most logical way to approach this situation with Napoleon’s worried chatterings in his ear - “Oh my god, what if B-52’s being held captive somewhere and… and we have to pay a _ransom_! Free meals for them every day, all day for the next month!”

“Napoleon,” Brownie soothed as he himself tried to remain calm, despite the fact that his mind was running through every single possible worst case scenario. _What if Napoleon’s right? No, no, even though this has happened and that has happened and everything, they aren’t bad food souls. I mustn’t think that way._

“Nevermind that,” Brownie said out loud, trying to force himself into butler mode. “For now finding him is a top priority.” Yes. Yes, put everything on a task list. Go through them one by one. It was simple. Right, right, where had B-52 and the gang been this morning that would make it plausible for him to be taken away by force? That was right. Good. 

“Let’s go back to the restaurant and search for some clues,” Brownie said, trying to force confidence into his voice. Maybe his quick, brisk demeanor could mask the urge to tear his hair out from stress.

 _I hope B-52’s alright,_ Brownie fretted as he and Napoleon raced back to the restaurant. The menacing shadow of a certain redhead loomed at the edges of his memory. _He must be so scared…_

.

As if being humiliated at breakfast wasn't enough, now B-52 had to listen to the trio hopelessly pile on innuendo after innuendo after innuendo.

“Come on, two options. Which is the most desirable choice?”

“This definitely isn't. How would one stand out amongst the brightness of angels?”

“No way. It’s sensual and seductive, like the taste of dark chocolate melting in your mouth… come on, Gluten, back me up here.”

“Honestly, I think black’s rather… _tasteful_.”

“Oh! Betrayed again by the devil’s sire.”

B-52 stifled another yawn as the trio launched into a another round of boring squabbles. Really, his current predicament was fine, he supposed. Except for the numerous other customers shooting them weird looks and whispering amongst themselves, whispering things like: “Food souls really are strange…”

And also the fact that he was currently still all tied up and trailing behind Gluten like a mechanical puppy on a leash, but whatever. With a little tea, it could almost make a comfortable position to be in.

Oh, who was he trying to fool?

 _It’s not me who’s a total nutcase! It’s them!_ B-52 side-eyed Chocolate and Gluten, who seemed to be arguing over… fancy clothes? The trio had mentioned numerous terms such as ‘blazer’ in their short little shopping spree. _Maybe they want to pick up a little something for Chocolate’s terrible fashion sense,_ B-52 scoffed internally.

Seriously, why the fuck was he even here? If Chocolate, Coffee and Gluten wanted to play dress up, he had no qualms about it, but for the love of god, what was the point of _him_ being here as well? Were there no other nannies on call to supervise them?

Bored and tied up in Gluten’s tricky sticky spider whip, B-52 barely registered fabric brushing against his legs until he heard Coffee’s excited voice. “This is it!” he whispered quickly. “The spark of light that will illuminate the abyss.”

“A good match, surprisingly enough.” B-52 tried unsuccessfully to look down at what Gluten was pressing against his chest. From his peripheral vision, all he could spot was the rather smart-looking flaps of a white collared shirt. _Huh, didn't realise me and Chocolate were the same size,_ was B-52’s first inane thought, before he jerked with the realisation.

_Hang on a sec -_

“And this blue will bring out your eyes,” Coffee said, holding up one of the aforementioned ‘blazers’.

“Or you could wear this.” Chocolate held up a similar brown version of the blazer. “You’re always wearing brown. Classy, classy,” he said, his grin _way_ too full of amusement for B-52’s comfort. “ _Mon cher_ , I bet you’d look positively _delicious_.”

“I told you to stop with the Napoleonese!” B-52 spat in order to distract himself from the sheer insanity of his fellow food souls. What were they _doing_? These clothes seemed stupidly fancy. What kind of occasion would he even _need_ to accentuate his eyes for? Was this also a part of human tradition he had to learn? Well, maybe he could learn… if he had _any_ clue what the fuck was happening at all.

Gluten and Coffee had turned away, discussing something amongst themselves, before Coffee held up black trousers and a brown belt, adding them to the already considerably large amount of fabric draped over his left hand. B-52 stared at the pile like how a mouse might stare at a large cat.

Finally, Chocolate announced, “ _Mes amis,_ I think that’s enough for round one.”

“Once again, shut -” B-52 almost choked as Gluten wrenched him forward with a flick of her wrist, insistently pulling him past bewildered staff and humans before stopping at a corridor with many, many doors. _Changing room,_ B-52’s scanner told him, extremely helpful to the dizzy food soul’s eyes.

“Try these on.” Coffee dumped all the clothes into B-52’s dazed arms. “Okayhavefunbye -” he spit out at record speed as the blond dashed out like lightning in a bottle and slammed the door after him.

B-52 was speechless for many moments. Clothes dropped dead on the floor like flies as B-52’s hands slipped. Staring at them strewn all over just highlighted his resolve to absolutely _not_ participate in this harebrained scheme.

“Fucking idiots and their fucking ideas,” B-52 seethed as he clicked the door open… wait. Wait, no. The doorknob didn't seem to be turning. Sweat gathered on his forehead, an impending sense of doom heightening the more and more he turned the knob this way and that.

It was stuck.

“Guys! This isn't funny!” he yelled, face paling as he tried everything within his power to make the damn thing turn. Pressing the button, pushing it, bracing his entire weight against the door, pulling it so hard B-52 had to stop for fear it really would fly off and hit him right in the head.

No response.

...well, that left one last thing to try.

“LET ME OUT OF HERE!” B-52 bellowed, raining punch after punch on the wooden door that refused to budge.

.

“So you’re saying they went to the boutique?”

“That’s the message they told me to give you.”

“But why would they?”

Steak’s nostrils flared in anger. “Beats me, but trust me, Brownie, they’re planning something,” he growled. “For goodness sake, they couldn't even wait till I was out of earshot to talk about how ‘stupid’ I was and how ‘obviously perfect’ I was to play the role of unwitting pawn!”

“I knew it!” Napoleon declared, an almost psychotic grin on his face. He struck a pose, a hand on his hips, gun hoisted over his shoulder with the other. “Come on, Brownie!” he called, dashing outside, terrifying everyone in his path with the way he was twirling his rifle around like a kid’s baton.

Steak sighed as he watched him go. “I’m really sorry. I wish I could help you guys bash their heads in, but… I’m on dishwashing duty.” He fidgeted. “Master Attendant said I had to stop fighting with Red Wine.”

“Just so we’re clear, you were the one who antagonised me first!” a voice called from inside.

“Like hell I am!” Steak snapped back, hand lingering over the place where his scabbard usually resided. He looked back at the bewildered Brownie, anger lessening a little as he said, “Be careful, Brownie.”

“Steak, all of these dishes aren't even washed properly! They’re as putrid as your absolute stench!”

“At least I don’t smell like a middle-aged fat bastard!” Steak’s scoff sounded far away to Brownie’s ears. They flicked once, twice, as Brownie hurried to adjust his vest, the nervous habit of making sure he was always presentable kicking in to serve as a brief distraction. His legs pumping, Brownie found himself on the brick pathways of the rest of the city.

“Napoleon!” Brownie called as he tried not to skid into various astonished passersby. “Napoleon!”

Napoleon was but a distant shape at the edge of his vision. Brownie could vaguely make out his brown curls and trigger-happy hands on his rifle, blindly charging through masses in the marketplace. “I’m so sorry!” Brownie would apologise as he brushed past ticked-off townspeople, some of which were rubbing their arms or even faces, obviously angered by the wild food soul. 

This was bad. This was very, very bad. Fear granted him strength as he leapt after his friend. In a matter of time, Brownie found himself being led to a rather populated store with a large sign reading _Gloriville’s Garments_. The store was moderately large, with a dark brown concrete exterior much like Master Attendant’s own restaurant. Another time, Brownie might even have been content to shop around.

Napoleon had stopped, his eyes squinted in a glare as he now wielded his rifle like a large wooden cane. Brownie skidded to a halt beside him, panting slightly. “This is… this is the… the place?”

“Yeah.” Napoleon scowled. “I come here a lot to buy cool stuff. If they’ve done something to this place, I’ll kill them!”

“Can you see B-52?” Brownie asked desperately, trying to see if he could spot anything amongst the various racks. _He has to be alright!_ “Any sign?”

“Oh.” Napoleon blinked, shaking his head. “Let’s go in,” he said, pushing the door open with a little jingle. He pulled Brownie along by the hand, hiding amongst objects like snakes amongst grass. Brownie peeked out from between several well-placed hangers while Napoleon kept hidden behind a mannequin. Luckily, his cape wasn't too out of place with the mannequin’s bright red dress.

 _I can't see anything,_ Brownie thought in despair, blue eyes swivelling back and forth. _Just customer after customer after… is that Coffee?_

The café owner’s striking multi coloured hair streaks stood out amongst the crowd. Following his line of sight, Brownie located Gluten and Coffee. The trio stood together, laughing and cackling about who knew what. Hope and anxiety flared up tenfold as he flattened his ears against his skull, taking care not to be spotted. Brownie backed up a little, quietly making his way to Napoleon... whereupon he unfortunately yelled “There!” on cue.

Brownie had blinked _once_ and Napoleon had somehow already vaulted all the way across the store, standing on tiptoe, now using his rifle as some sort of staff as he all but stabbed Chocolate in the face with it.

 _Oh no oh no oh no. Please, please help me,_ Brownie prayed to whatever god may be listening right about now as he bent over, awkwardly helping to rearrange the various racks Napoleon had knocked over. It seemed being a valued customer had a few perks, seeing as Napoleon currently wasn't being chewed out… or perhaps it was because he was a valued customer with a _gun_.

 _This is bad, bad, bad…_ His only hope right now was finding B-52 safe and getting out of here, preferably to never show his face again. Brownie couldn’t imagine just _how_ many civilians he and the other food souls had managed to bother today.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Brownie repeated to every single staff member affected by his fellow food souls’ poor behaviour. He only hoped this wouldn't reflect too badly on Master Attendant, who heaven knew already had their plate full of other, more important matters. His ears pricked up to catch every sound, Brownie strained to hear any snippet of their conversation that might alert him to B-52’s whereabouts. Adrenaline amplified his heartbeat, made it pound in his ears.

“O-oh, Napoleon, fancy seeing you here!” He heard Chocolate say. “Well, you see, any chance you’re alone?” 

“What? So you guys want to kidnap _both_ B-52 and Brownie now?”

“I… uh, well, we…”

“No, no, no,” Gluten said in a voice that just screamed _they owe me for this later_. “It’s just that we couldn't possibly take on both of you at once, so it’s lucky you came by yourself.”

“Well consider your luck snapped in half!” Napoleon grinned as he gestured Brownie over. 

Bowing once more to the thankful staff, Brownie made his way over to his fellow food souls with a sinking feeling in his heart. He kept his eyes on the floor, glancing up every so often to eye B-52’s captors in their carefully blank faces. Frustration and despair blew over him like a cold breeze. Brownie kept his eyes on them, ears twitching. “Where is B-52?” he asked, trying to huddle in on himself.

What was this? He just wanted to find B-52, and then settle back into his comfortable room at the restaurant and fall asleep for a million years. This was more than enough stress he could handle for the next million lifetimes. He only hoped his partner had survived the entire ordeal.

“Back there.” Coffee seemed apologetic, his smile sympathetic. “I’m really sorry for all of this, you know how they are,” he added, as he gestured for the butler to follow him. “Why don't you let me show you?”

Surprised, Brownie could only falter for a second before he followed Coffee. Behind him, he vaguely heard Napoleon’s triumphant “Aha!” and the sounds of what seemed to be a stampede travelling outside. Turning back to Coffee, Brownie allowed his thoughts to brew. _So Coffee really was forced into it,_ Brownie thought to himself with a relieved sigh. _Glad to know there’s at least someone else I can count on._

Coffee led Brownie to the changing rooms, pausing as if to remember which door held B-52 behind it. The answer to that, of course, being the door with loud pounding threatening to burst it down. “Open up! Open up, you assholes!” came the faint cry, so soft it was little wonder no one had been alerted to his plight.

Brownie’s heart soared, excitement making his ears prick up. “B-52!” he called, running over to door five. 

The pounding eased up immediately. “Brownie?”

“Thank goodness,” he breathed out, leaning his head against the wooden door. “I was… I was so worried…” Tears pricked at his eyes, perhaps from the relief, or perhaps from the adrenaline of it all. Nothing had happened. This was just some absurd prank. They could all go home and have a good laugh about it after Napoleon was done… doing whatever he was doing. “I’m so glad I’ve found you,” Brownie confessed in a whisper that he was pretty sure B-52 couldn't hear through the wood.

Coffee walked over to inspect the door, placing his hand on it. “It looks like Chocolate’s magic has prevented this door from opening from the inside,” he remarked. Turning the knob, Brownie saw shimmery rose petals escape into the air and disappear one by one.

“Thank you,” Brownie said with a small smile.

“Don't thank me yet,” Coffee said with a little wink. Before Brownie had the chance to analyse what this could possibly mean, the door opened to find a very frazzled B-52 that had apparently transformed the changing room into a mess.

“B-52!” Overjoyed, Brownie ran over to the blond, who still seemed dazed from everything. Luckily, he wasn't too out of it to return Brownie’s bone-crushing hug, as Brownie launched into a reprise of yet another affectionate purr. _B-52’s still in nightclothes,_ Brownie realised, _but that doesn't matter. He’s still perfect this way._

“Hey,” B-52 said softly, fondness glimmering in his one blue eye. “You said you were worried about me?” 

“Yeah,” Brownie said, lips curving upwards as gratitude and relief and affection all rolled together in one big ball of emotion. “I just… when Napoleon told me the news -”

 _Smack!_ Something was hurled right into Brownie’s back. Startled, he turned around, only for chills to run down his spine as he realised the door was once again shut tight. There was absolutely nothing to panic about except for the fact that things were going from bad to worse. “C-Coffee?” he tried, voice sounding small even to him as he fervently hoped it was just a mistake.

“See you!” was Coffee’s overly cheery voice. “I hope you enjoy… the _devil’s gift_. Unfortunately, I must leave now to save Chocolate and Gluten from certain death. Goodbye.” Coffee’s footsteps faded at an alarmingly fast pace.

Brownie was rendered absolutely speechless. He and B-52 swapped gazes of increasing incredulity before both sprang to their feet, turning, pulling, pushing, _punching_ -

“It’s no use.”

“Those assholes locked me in _again_!” B-52 yelled, kicking the wooden door (that now seemed to have been swapped for steel) for good measure.

“What… do we do now?”

“I don't know,” B-52 scoffed, collapsing on the cushioned seat beside the large mirror. “Let’s just wait here till they come back. There’s nothing we can do without Coffee.”

“You don't suppose Napoleon is being _too_ rough with them, is he?”

B-52 waved a hand around dismissively. “Oh, he can kill them for all I care.” 

For once, Brownie agreed. With a dejected sigh, Brownie admitted defeat by way of leaning against their barricade. _I should have planned for this situation,_ he thought dejectedly, a certain feeling of betrayal also added to the mix. _But at least, I’ve found B-52, and he’s safe and sound,_ he added, ears perking up just a little.

Suddenly, a little gasp reverberated through the room. Ears shooting up, Brownie turned around, concerned to find his partner’s one exposed eye stretched _that_ wide. B-52 appeared to be looking at something on the ground. Drawing closer, Brownie asked, “Is everything alright?” before he got a good look at said something and froze as well.

The piece of clothing that Coffee had thrown at him was his _maid uniform_.


	31. Step Three: Melt the Butter

_Ohhh boy._

B-52 clasped his hands together, not daring to blink or even move an inch as he stared at Brownie’s dress lying there innocently on wooden floorboards.

“I’m awfully sorry!” Now B-52 did blink. It was gone. In its place were dark boots and rather long legs. He traced them up to the rest of Brownie, who was absolutely and positively frantic, ears flicking along with sharp shakes of his head. “I… I have no idea where Coffee and the others even got that!” he said partially to himself, looking like he was about to go and slam his head against the wooden door many, many times.

“Well, they probably conveniently decided to invade your privacy.” B-52 glared at the black pair of trousers in front of him. Stupid Chocolate. Stupid Coffee. Stupid Gluten. “I know they’ve taken my weapon somewhere.”

“Somewhere? Where? Why?”

B-52 rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. For safekeeping, apparently.” He bet it was on Coffee, if Brownie’s uniform had been with him.

Said uniform was being held behind Brownie’s back. He was gripping it much harder than he needed to, concerning enough on its own, but B-52 knew if this went on Brownie would cause _creases_ to materialise, and that simply wouldn’t do for the neat and tidy butler. Spending another few minutes ironing the creases would be another few minutes being reminded that it did, in fact, exist. That wouldn’t be good. B-52 knew Brownie would probably die even more from embarrassment than he currently already was.

What could B-52 even do right now? He tried to look behind Brownie’s back, and when that didn’t work out, looked up at the bead of sweat trailing down Brownie’s temple. “You seem… stressed. Maybe you should sit down?” B-52 finally asked as he patted the cushion beside him.

Brownie’s rigidity relaxed slightly, going from stone statue to plastic piece. “I would love… l-love to,” he said, trying to mask up his slight trip up by plopping down next to the blushing B-52. 

Damn it, even little words phrased just the slightest bit weirdly was enough to make him (and Brownie) flustered. Briefly, a flash of memory detailing the first time they had held hands was pictured. B-52 gulped, firmly whisking the image away. No. This was too close, too dangerous, and… B-52 was starting to realise that they were _alone_. Not even the other employees could barge in on them. For now, this tiny room was theirs.

 _Just what on earth are they expecting us to do?_ B-52 thought, equal parts scandalised and furious. First from the rumors, he could tell. And now this… _Go back go back go back!_ he screamed at himself, looking at the still on-edge Brownie beside him, ears pricked up for attention. _This isn’t the time for that!_ Brownie obviously didn’t need that on top of his probably already colossal well of stress.

“Wh-what about all these clothes you have all around?” Brownie asked, his eyes quickly darting anywhere but at B-52. _He’s trying to deflect attention,_ B-52 realised. 

Well, he could understand that. In fact, he understood it so well - B-52 tried not to frown at the thought of the terrible trio who had gotten them into this deadly mess - that he was willing to do whatever it took to preserve his poor partner’s sanity.

“I don’t know,” B-52 said with an exasperated sigh. “One of those fucks said they suited me or my eyes or some shit.” Maybe some conversation would help them both calm down.

With a curious look in his eyes, Brownie’s ears did the adorable flick again. B-52 was so busy trying not to squeal outwardly that it took Brownie repeating his name to snap him out of it. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked, head still a little lost in the clouds.

Brownie smiled as he pointed to the blazer discarded haphazardly on the ground. “They’re right for once. I bet this would look great on you,” he said with a rarely heard softness in his voice. B-52 had to swallow before replying. No one had ever told him he could look anything but scary before. He had always accepted it - it was hard not to, what with half of him being made out of metal, wings and all. _I… really like him,_ B-52 thought without any purpose whatsoever. The thought made a sudden burst of pure happiness run through his flesh and veins, cogs and wheels.

Maybe his lack of focus lead him to say “I bet you’d look great too,” without running it through his analyser first.

Brownie’s reaction was a startled jump. “H-huh?” Brownie gasped, shrinking back against the wall. “You… you mean the blazer?”

 _Goddamn it stop saying things you piece of shit._ B-52 winced internally. “I just… I meant to say, that, like… I know you’re kinda all ‘ugh, whatever’ about that, and that’s really understandable, but… I think you look really cute like that,” he said eloquently, thereby proving he had learnt absolutely nothing from his own scoldings.

Brownie just looked confused. B-52 sighed, willing his blush to die down. Turning, he grasped Brownie’s shoulders, shaking him. “Brownie, I don’t think any less of you,” he insisted. “If you don’t want to wear the dress, it’s okay, but I… but you…” B-52 fumbled over his words once more as he realised he had just called Brownie _cute_.

Damn it, he had gone and done it yet again. Still though, that didn’t lessen the truth one bit, so B-52 decided to bulldoze ahead. “I think you looked really cute in that dress, Brownie,” he said, volume getting lower and lower as his nerves got the better of him. He stopped as Brownie’s lips parted slightly, astonishment plain to see on his features. 

It was at this very convenient time that B-52’s brain chose to become aware of just how close they were, almost forehead to forehead, and Brownie’s eyes were just the most beautiful shade of blue-gray… and then B-52 hastily let Brownie go, flustered beyond belief and awkwardly picking at the folds in his clothes.

A quiet voice muttered, “Thank you.” B-52 shivered, involuntarily jerking a little as he felt Brownie’s hand inch closer to his. At the last second, Brownie hesitated, instead awkwardly tapping his fingers against B-52’s own. Still, B-52 appreciated the gesture.

“I’m… really grateful,” Brownie continued. “Actually, Master Attendant was the one who sprung this whole maid shtick on me. I might… I should consider going back to it.”

B-52 tried not to grin too obviously. Otherwise he’d seem like a pervert, right? No, no, he refused to stoop to Chocolate’s level. But still, he allowed himself a smile. That would encourage Brownie, right? 

And honestly… a part of him couldn’t wait to see him in the dress again, cute, fluffy cat ears and all.

“Tell you what,” B-52 offered. “If it makes you feel better, I can wear this ridiculous outfit selection as well. I guarantee you’ll look way better than I will, though.”

“...are you sure?”

“Well, I do still need something better than my nightclothes.”

Brownie hesitated, hands still clutching at his maid uniform. “Okay.”

“Okay?” B-52 repeated even as he leant forward, trying not to seem too eager.

“Yes. I’ll…” Brownie blinked owlishly. “I will attempt to clamber over this obstacle.” 

“Ah, but Brownie, i-it’s okay if you don’t want to. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

Brownie’s ears flicked adorably once more. “You think I look… cute,” Brownie said, a small, shy smile flitting over his face. “If that’s the case, I don’t think I mind letting you see. Small steps, after all. Maybe then I can work up the courage to wear this in the restaurant once again.”

B-52 nodded, his mouth suddenly feeling dry and his heart pounding at the fact that he was going to see Brownie in that cute, pleated, ruffly skirt once again. That Brownie had indirectly told him that he was the only one he’d be willing to wear it for made B-52 feel… warm, fuzzy. _Only this once, though,_ he told himself. Strangely, he felt an urge to laugh. _That’s right. It’s not about you. It’s about Brownie._

...didn’t mean he couldn’t indulge in this thought for a little while longer, though.

“In exchange…” Suddenly, B-52 found one of Brownie’s gloved hands trailing along his shoulder. Brownie looked unsure, as if uncertain whether this was an appropriate course of action, as was typical of him. “I’d like you to…” Brownie gulped, losing all eye contact as he looked at the floor. “To try on… one of these,” he said in a small voice.

Right. B-52 _had_ offered after all, and he had no intention of saying no if it would make Brownie feel any better about himself. He _was_ cute, possibly the most beautiful food soul B-52 had ever seen, and in the blond’s opinion, any step forward was a good step forward. 

B-52 had to take a few moments to just breathe, to calm his sudden excitement down. “What would you like me to wear?” 

Brownie pauses, his cat ears lowering briefly before they perked up again. “Well, I…” he said, eyes darting around, before with his lightning-quick reflexes he gathered up a bunch of clothes B-52 hadn’t even realised were there, piling them in a slightly disorganised fashion beside them.

B-52 glanced over what Brownie had picked - the black trousers, white shirt and aforementioned blue blazer. B-52 felt a strange current of nervousness running through his body like electricity. For a moment, it was hard for him to breathe or even do anything. Just being this close and interacting with Brownie was apparently knocking all of his gears loose. 

Slowly, he picked up the blue blazer, draping it haphazardly over his shoulders. He stood up, turning around to face the full-length mirror. “You really think this suits me?” B-52 asked, pulling at the admittedly very smooth and comfortable fabric, making adjustments here and there. The gang really had thought of everything. It fit him perfectly. But doubt still lingered in his mind, at the thought of a machine putting... any of this on. Maybe this wasn’t suited for him, him with all his mechanical parts and soul...

B-52 saw Brownie nod in the mirror. The brunet hesitated, nervously wringing his hands together. He bent to pick up the maid uniform he had left on the cushioned seat. “Alright. Without further ado…” Brownie glanced at the mirror and instantly looked away. “Um. Well. Let’s take opposite sides of the walls and agree not to look.”

“Huh? You’re actually going to do it?”

“Of course.” Brownie’s faint voice sounded strained, but in a good way this time. “After all, I can’t wait to see if it really will accentuate your eyes.”

It was B-52’s turn to be struck dumb at that remark. _Damn it, Brownie, you’re not playing fair!_ The blond decided to distract himself by way of stepping away from the mirror and starting on the top of his nightclothes. 

Come to think of it, was it appropriate to be changing in the same room as Brownie when he was attracted to him? B-52 trained his gaze stubbornly on himself, taking quicker than was probably recommended to squeeze out just in case he caught a flash of his partner’s dark skin in the mirror. The thought left B-52 blushing profusely as he shelved it firmly in forbidden territory. _Good lord, help me,_ he chanted over and over, attempting to keep calm and not explode from Brownie overload. 

“I’m done,” B-52 announced, pulling the blazer on. He did have to admit that he looked smarter than he had in a while. B-52’s heart thumped. _Will Brownie like it?_

“I’m not. Sorry, I’ll be a few minutes more.”

“Sure. No rush.” B-52 busied himself with adjusting the collar of his shirt and threading the black belt through the loops. Finally done, he patted himself, dusting himself off. B-52 still refused to give the mirror a second glance, but from what he could see of himself… for once, B-52 thought he might actually not pass for a mechanical menace. _Well, there’s still the robot arm,_ B-52 thought, and with a sudden burst of impulsiveness he ripped his eyepatch from his head in one swift motion. He felt as if he had just run a grand marathon as he clutched the bronze in his hand, taking a deep breath.

“I think I finally got the zipper up,” Brownie joked. B-52 felt almost ashamed at the sudden rush of excitement. If he had cat ears of his own, he was pretty sure they would prick up whenever Brownie said anything.

“I can look now?” B-52 asked, trying not to vibrate in place and to downplay his splitting grin.

“Of course.”

“You first?”

“You first.”

“I’ll turn around when you will.”

Brownie laughed at that, the sound making B-52’s skin tingle. “Sure. I’m doing it now.” 

B-52 heard rustling punctuated with a soft gasp. Sensing his cue, B-52 turned around. Instantly he was stopped short by the sight before him. 

B-52 was certain he had died.

In front of him was Brownie in his dress, fingers fiddling with his dark strands of hair in an almost demure fashion. It complimented him perfectly, the dark, ruffled pleats a direct contrast against the pure white. Brownie himself seemed stunned, his hands clenching slightly and arms half-raised as if to reach forward.

For a moment, neither spoke, before B-52 blurted out, “You look really, really good. I mean it!”

That seemed to rouse Brownie. He blinked before taking a step forward. “And you…” Briefly, he pursed his lips before his cheeks flushed darker. “Look very… very cool,” he said. B-52 would have been satisfied with that, really! Except then Brownie closed the distance between them and dressed like this, B-52 was suddenly hyperaware of the aromatic fragrance in the air, Brownie’s slender shape, and the way his eyelashes fluttered delicately.

“I’ve never seen you without your bronze lens before,” he commented. Brownie reacted as if he really was a curious feline, his head cocked to the side, eyes and ears alert. He raised a hand, and B-52 couldn’t help but notice the elegant long gloves spanning the length of his forearms. B-52 was almost certain he was about to bat the newly exposed area as if his hands really were paws, but to his delight Brownie repeated the trick they had covered previously. Fingers brushed against B-52’s cheek, sending little shivers along his skin.

“You know… I think you should do without the lens more often.” To B-52’s disappointment, Brownie drew away. As if afraid that he had overstepped B-52’s boundaries, Brownie quickly added, “That is, if you’re fine with that. It’s up to you, not to me.”

B-52 simply stopped and stared, still slightly in a daze from all that had transpired between them. He searched the walls for a clock, or window, or anything that could tell them the passage of time, since suddenly… B-52 was starting to _want_ no one to interrupt them. Half because he and Brownie would probably die from embarrassment, and half because…

B-52 reached forward, cautiously taking Brownie into his arms. When he didn’t resist, B-52 tightened his grip, allowing himself a small smile. “What say we settle on a trade?” he asked, allowing his insecurities to melt away with the warmth of his partner just next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Or melt your butler eh eH~~


	32. Step Four: Stir the Ingredients

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I skipped a little of Brownie and B-52’s conversation, because flow of time and stuff, but hopefully it still makes sense enough for you to infer the details :D

“The monster of Corsica is coming!”

“You’ve been saying that for the past half hour!” Chocolate yelled as yet more bullets rained around him and his accompanying redhead. Expertly, Gluten deflected all of Napoleon’s bullets with quick flashes of her whip, knocking each and every one of them out of their way. Gluten landed on her feet, whip draped sensually over her bare shoulder.

The duo heard Napoleon grumble. Evidently, he was out of ammo once again. Their little group had to give Napoleon credit where credit was due - they certainly hadn’t expected Napoleon to be such a persistent predator akin to the likes of a horror movie monster.

 _An oversight on our part,_ Coffee had said during their emergency meeting, _but nothing you two can’t handle, I assume?_

Coffee was so very, completely, absolutely, horrendously, loathsomely _wrong_.

“When Napoleon finally stops destroying the entire town,” Gluten huffed as she ran beside Chocolate, “let me know so I can stop using so much effort. Sweat can enhance your look, but too much and it’s just gaudy.”

“Do you have any idea who you’re speaking to?” Chocolate retorted. “I am the Time Magician, the most talented food soul in terms of matters of the heart.”

“Well, I’m the one protecting you because you didn’t think you’d need to bring your flower bouquet.”

Chocolate sighed loudly. “I must confess, Napoleon has been an unexpected addition to this day’s events.”

“Honestly, we should have expected it. They’re good friends.” Gluten shrugged. “Now run and hide before that dumbass finds us again.”

Luckily for the duo, rescue came in the form of bright green flames smouldering over the calm landscape of Gloriville. Chocolate eyed Gluten. A second later, they exchanged a nod as a cry of “B-52!!” indicated that Napoleon had taken the bait.

They hurried towards the site just in time to see a foot slip out, tripping the brunet over. In the blink of an eye, the hidden attacker, Coffee, had managed to grab the rifle out of Napoleon’s hands and pin him down with his shoulder and a knee. Sensing help was needed, the two remaining food souls rushed past shocked human onlookers and assisted in pressing Napoleon to the ground.

Napoleon bristled, his normally cheerful, sweet smile replaced with barely suppressed rage. “Let. Me. Go.” 

The whispered threat was enough to send shivers down all of their spines.

“I’m awfully sorry for the inconvenience, Napoleon Cake, but it was the devil’s will.” The appointed peacemaker forced himself to smile down at the fallen food soul through tinted glasses. “Your rifle will be added to my borrowed weapons collection unless you agree to join us, or leave us.”

“Like hell I’ll just let you kidnap them both!” Napoleon snapped, eyes flashing a furious red. “Brownie’s gone too. You’ve taken him too, haven’t you -”

“Hear us out, alright?” Gluten snapped brusquely, at the very least getting Napoleon to stop squirming. Ruby eyes rested on each of the trio in turn, before Napoleon finally nodded. Or did his best to nod.

“Right.” Chocolate broke into a smirk. “So I’m sure you know that our dear butler and battler has feelings for each other. We’ve decided to hasten things up a little, perhaps add a little seasoning,” he said with suggestive eyebrow waggles that seemed to be a different language on their own.

“Yes, so we thought it’d be good for them to have an hour or so to talk things out,” Coffee added with much less implied innuendo.

“And I was bored,” Gluten said, shrugging.

Napoleon gave them a look before he slapped a hand over his mouth to resist laughing in all three of their stupid faces. “Alright, alright,” he gasped, voice muffled through his hand. “I got it. I’m in. Let me go.”

“Of course,” Coffee replied. With his signal, Napoleon was immediately freed. Coffee handed Napoleon his rifle back, relaxing when the shorter food soul didn’t do anything but dust it off.

“So, if you guys have… have done _that_ ,” Napoleon said, trying desperately to hold his laughing fit in, “what say you we go check on them to make sure?”

“That’s an excellent proposal,” Coffee answered. He led their little parade forth, marching straight past the dozens in the crowd that had formed to gawk aimlessly at the strange little quartet. Napoleon followed behind, unbothered and unfettered. Fortunately, simply being Napoleon gave him a convenient excuse for the extremely large grin on his face.

.

“I think those terms sound excellent.”

“Of course. It’s fair and profitable.” B-52 smirked. “And you know what? You can get right to practicing.”

“Of course. First order of business as your maid,” Brownie teased, “is to fix your shirt.”

Teasing. Teasing, yes that was good to distract from his own _man-maid_ situation - was B-52’s pun game eating away at his senses? - but oh, maybe not a little too much, since B-52 seemed to have gone all quiet and blushy again, but maybe _juuusst_ a little more, because his partner was absolutely adorable like this, with his tousled blond hair and now his smart, clean look. 

Despite all his preparation - hell, B-52 had even asked for it - B-52 was still struck over like a bowling pin by Brownie. “My… my… mai- _shirt_?” B-52 managed to gargle out.

“That’s right.” Brownie nodded as he leaned over slightly, fingers brushing over said offending flaps of cotton as he remembered to ask, “If it’s okay?”

“Go… go ahead.”

Satisfied, Brownie got to work immediately, tucking in B-52’s shirt properly. He’d miss the slightly rebel-ish vibe the untucked clothing had given him, but now B-52 was neat and clean and well-dressed. Dressed to kill. Kill Brownie. Make him suffer from a heart attack and die. Brownie had to lick his lips to wet them for how dry they had become from B-52 overdose. Maybe he _was_ drunk off the eponymous cocktail. That would certainly explain his desire to lean forward and… nuzzle… B-52?

The blond, for his part, had a hand lingering over the place where Brownie had tucked in his shirt, just beside his hips, and… Brownie himself was starting to burn with the realisation that that touch might have been a little _too_ intimate for a couple that hadn’t even been on an official date yet.

 _That’s a little funny. We’ve confessed, he’s stroked my ears, now we’re in a room together, but no date,_ said Brownie’s dead brain.

“This is… this, that… uh… I mean to say…” B-52 coughed, raising a hand to his mouth. “Th-thank you, I guess?”

B-52’s flustered antics managed to elicit a giggle from the butler, because in all honesty he was just so relatable right now it hurt. _It’s okay. It’s B-52,_ whispered the constant voice always at the back of his mind. It was true. Brownie was starting to relax, to forget about the alien sensation that was him wearing this dress… his supposed work outfit.

This was okay. It was okay. Everything was okay. B-52 wasn’t put off or judging him at all. Brownie could work with this. A thought arose: it had never been the other customers he’d been worried about. After all, his new outfit had been met with wildly positive reception. Nor did Brownie actually mind wearing the dress, even if such clothes were traditionally meant for women. It was comfortable, and no food soul had actually challenged Brownie for daring to wear such a feminine, pretty thing.

It had only been because of B-52. 

Brownie gulped. And now that he knew the true reason why B-52 had acted so strangely seeing him in it… Brownie thought that perhaps it would be feasible to try the dress on again tomorrow morning. Maybe just by himself in the room at first, and then proceed from there. There was nothing to be afraid of. It was just him and B-52 now.

And… B-52’s eyes were very blue. Not the pale, chalky, milky blue of his own. B-52’s eyes resembled the sky and the ocean and Brownie was very much in over his head.

“Hey,” said Brownie.

“Hey,” said B-52, his mouth simultaneously in a thin line and stretched upwards at the edges. “Do you... do you wanna, I mean…”

“Want to do what?” Feeling confidence seep back into his body, Brownie took a little step forwards, just to test the water. “You‘ll have to be a little more specific, as there aren’t a lot of things I wouldn’t want to do with you.”

“I do hope shooting me with your blaster is on that list,” B-52 joked, his voice sounding a little breathless to Brownie’s ears. The important thing was that his partner hadn’t flinched away. _Target sighted._ The brunet placed his hands on B-52’s shoulders, eyes flicking up to take in the glory that was B-52 with both eyes revealed.

“Hmm,” he mused. “Can I just… look at you?”

“You’d actually want to look at me?” B-52 sounded incredulous. Which was ridiculous, in Brownie’s opinion. Wasn’t there a full-length mirror just behind them? Was B-52 half blind from his obscuring glass lens?

“Yes, I would.” Brownie reached a hand up again, and when B-52 didn’t pull away as expected, brushed it along his cheek. As B-52’s eyes slipped shut, Brownie continued, “You know, actually… I think the trade’s cancelled.”

“Oh?” B-52 startled. He had evidently nearly forgotten. 

“In fact,” Brownie grinned, “I would like for you to keep your eyepatch on, so it’d be our special little secret.” The grin dropped from his face. “Seriously, though, you don’t need to adhere to my whims. If you want to, or don’t want to, go ahead. I’ll understand.”

“O-oh?” Still red in the cheeks from Brownie’s offhand remark, B-52 spared a quick furtive glance elsewhere before he weakly demanded, “Brownie, where the hell are you getting these lines from?”

It was Brownie’s turn to pause and stutter as a certain novel with pages upon pages of romantic scenes penned out vividly bounced into Brownie’s memory. His arms fell to his side as he backed away, ears slightly lowered. “I guess I’m simply a hidden talent,” he said instead, very, _very_ grateful that B-52 hadn’t yet stumbled across it.

“Making me a malfunctioning mecha is a talent that’s way too specific.”

“You’re not -”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” B-52 put up a hand. “I was just… I was just making a joke,” he said hurriedly. “I think. I think that’s okay, right?”

Brownie simply blinked, because since when did B-52 learn to pick up humor? Granted, he had made a few here and there in front of Brownie, but this? This was new. Then Brownie realised something: B-52 wasn’t making just any joke. It was specifically a self-deprecating one. Though small, at the very least, he was starting to make light of his own existence.

“Of course it’s okay,” Brownie said with a smile. “And I couldn’t be happier.”

“Why’s that?”

Brownie decided that despite said improvement, he wouldn’t broach such a sensitive topic to B-52, when he was obviously relaxed and not thinking about it for the moment. “It’s you,” he said again, closing the distance between them yet again. There was the urge again, and this time, Brownie spoke up. “I want to try something.”

“What kind of something?”

“We can call it an extension of a hug. You have my permission to push me off if I make you uncomfortable in any way.”

“Ah, yeah,” was the reply. B-52 seemed to be holding his breath, looking at Brownie with anticipation. Brownie hesitated, taking a brief moment to compile everything he felt - excitement, happiness, nervousness, confusion - and filed them all neatly away in the corner. Closing in, Brownie slowly lowered his head so his hair was brushing against B-52’s shoulder, no doubt tickling him.

“Hey, hey.” B-52 tapped Brownie’s shoulder, and Brownie was about to snap back and apologize when B-52 simply pointed at the cushioned seat in the corner. “I think that might be more comfortable if you want to hug. Or...” B-52 coughed. “Cuddle. I-I think.”

“Of course.” Ignoring the lick of embers that was slight embarrassment burning at the edges of his mind, Brownie followed B-52 to said seat. It was a little squeezy, but nothing they couldn’t pull off. Cozy, actually. This time, Brownie went straight ahead to leaning against B-52’s broad shoulder, closing his eyes and telling his urge to _nuzzle_ B-52 that this was all it was getting for now. There would be time for that later. For now, with Black Tea’s advice echoing in his memory, Brownie would take things slowly.

B-52 tensed up a little before relaxing. To Brownie’s disappointment, his hands remained in his lap even as he turned his intrigued gaze upon his partner. “I have a request,” Brownie asked, hesitating before he decided to go through with his initial impulse. “Could you… I’d like it if you pet my ears again, please.”

“Oh. Oh, sure.” Brownie’s eyes drifted shut again as fingers rubbed against the soft velvet. Brownie broke into a purr again, the touches lighting up his senses and pulling him into an alcohol-laced trap. The brief lapse in concentration made Brownie turn his face slightly so his cheek was against B-52’s shoulder, purring harder as he rubbed a little, generating friction that was really, surprisingly pleasant to the core. His hands found B-52’s trousers, and Brownie’s dazed mind was filled thoughts of with _It’s so soft._ His hands clutched around the material, kneading B-52’s legs with his hands the way he often kneaded dough.

“Brownie, what are you doing?”

Brownie’s eyes snapped open, apology on the tip of his tongue, before he registered that suddenly B-52’s fingers seemed to be gone. Then he realised that his feline ears had once again unfortunately displayed his true feelings at the moment, the ones his stoic face failed to hide. In this case, they drooped down. Slightly miffed, Brownie forced them back into a neutral position, assuring B-52, “I’m fine.”

“That’s good, but what were you doing?” B-52 didn’t seem alarmed for one, so that was good. Then Brownie realised that petting his ears was probably very wildly dangerous if it produced situations like these during the period he was completely out of it… and even more unfortunately, B-52 had realised this as well.

Fingers returned to his ears, starting at the bottom and swiping towards the top, and… and it felt exquisite, the way he was doing this. Brownie broke off his purr long enough to answer with, “I… don’t know, just wanted to…” Brownie meowed, actually _meowed_ when B-52 rewarded him with a brush along his cheek with his free hand. Brownie couldn’t take this dual attack much longer.

“...Brownie, Brownie~”

Suddenly, Brownie swore he detected a familiar voice… saying something? Something like, “Yeah! Go get ‘em!” Brownie paused as the voice was abruptly cut off. He shrugged, curling up further in his partner’s warmth, just enjoying B-52 being here, just for him.

Then further eyebrows were raised as more voices joined the first. Annoyed, Brownie raised his head and fixed the offending door with a hard stare. “Shut up,” one seemed to hiss. “Come on, we need something good to come out of this!” was the other.

Brownie frowned as his mind cleared and sense returned to him. If he didn’t know better, he’d have been sure they were Napoleon, Gluten and Coffee, in that order. But that couldn’t be true. He was positive Napoleon had killed them all, unless… had Napoleon been conspiring with them all this while? Then Brownie thought back to the overzealous behaviour he had shown at eliminating them, and… no. Brownie doubted it. However, this left the only other possible interpretation: that somehow, Napoleon had been convinced (or bribed with sugar) to their side.

“Brownie, is something the matter?” B-52 had stiffened as well, catching on to his partner’s shift to high alert.

“Yes, actually.” Brownie nodded toward the door. “Did you hear anything?”

B-52 shook his head. “You mean you can?”

“Yeah.” Sensing a golden opportunity, Brownie smirked and lowered his ears in a coy fashion, one slightly higher than the other in a picture of perfect innocence. “These aren’t just good for looking _cute_ , you know.”

The effect was instantaneous. B-52 broke away, his mouth spluttering our a dozen half-formed syllables as his hands scrambled all over. “Y-yeah, no, I mean… I mean I’d never think that your battle skills just go poof because you’re wearing a dress!” he finally blurted out, averting his eyes in an uncharacteristically shy fashion. “I-in fact, I think it makes you even more badass, if anything.”

As nervous and hastily put-together B-52’s statement was, Brownie could feel the genuine sentiment in his words. He was starting to get used to this brand of _B-52’s Blunders_. Ears pricked, Brownie smiled back… and his good mood was promptly broken by someone (a certain Chocolate) apparently strolling in late, cheerfully announcing, “What did I miss? Have they fucked yet?” To Brownie’s brief pleasure, he was on the receiving end of three distinct sets of shushes so loud that even B-52 could apparently hear them, judging from the disgruntled expression on his own face.

“Hey, Brownie. Tell me what they’re saying so I can decide whether to bash their heads in, or to bash their heads in _harder_.”

“Most unsavory things,” Brownie said with mock sadness. “Rather embarrassing for a food soul, really.”

“Alright.” B-52 cracked his knuckles as he stood, stomping one foot for added emphasis. “They’ve gone too far this time. Stay away and I promise you won’t be caught in the crossfire.”

That was the cue for a flash of brilliant inspiration to cross Brownie’s mind. He angled his head upwards. “Or perhaps… we could get back at them.”

“...revenge?” B-52 seemed taken aback for a moment, before he simply grinned and shook his head. “Most _unprofessional_ of you, Brownie. Though I have to say, I’ll enjoy this quite a bit.” The last bit was said as B-52 drew forward so that his breath stirred the sensitive hairs around Brownie’s right ear, making him shiver from the close proximity of the other food soul. He doubted it was intentional, given B-52’s track record of not quite understanding things unless spelt out… but damn if he didn’t enjoy it.

“Indeed,” Brownie whispered, trying to regain concentration from his brief lack of attention. “I’m assuming you’re absolutely on board with this?”

“Consider it done.” B-52’s grin seemed dangerous. Handsome. But mostly dangerous. At this rate, Brownie _would_ be caught in the crossfire, but Brownie also didn’t care.

“Then,” Brownie leaned forward, conspiratorial look in his eyes, “I have an excellent proposal.”


	33. Step Five: Spread the Batter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shout-out to @HattinSession for putting an idea out there which I thought made far more sense than what I had planned. Originally Brownie was going to take Napoleon’s suggestion all the way back in chapter 15 to pretend to be in heat and smother B-52 all over, but then I realised that the trouble trio would probably like that...

_Yep. That was great._ Napoleon grinned as he crossed his arms and stood in a cool pose next to his rifle propped up against the walls, completely ignoring the dirty looks the trio were giving him.

He might have agreed to join them… but only physically. 

They _had_ , after all, forcefully invaded the privacy of his two best friends, and kidnapped B-52. Still though, if it was for their stated intention… Napoleon supposed he could let them off the hook, but not _too_ much. 

If his calculations were right, he had already succeeded in alerting his friends. Brownie was smart, he’d figure something out. Napoleon almost wished he had something like tea with him right now to make him look all cool and sophisticated. Except no, he didn’t really like tea. Maybe a pocky stick that could double as a cigarette substitute. Napoleon grinned to himself. _That’s the right idea._

“What are you grinning for?” Gluten piped up, shooting him a suspicious look.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Napoleon answered innocently, only to be interrupted by a sudden hike in volume of voices beyond the barred door.

“If you don’t like it, or me that’s fine! But you don’t have to get all up in my face about it -“

“All up in _your_ face? I can barely breathe! This room is suffocating!”

Napoleon blinked, smile dropping off. Instantly, Gluten’s expression turned slightly more sympathetic.

“Oh, uh…” Coffee and Chocolate turned to look at each other. Gluten shrugged, while Coffee had the grace to look slightly sheepish. The blond turned to Napoleon, admitting, “I’m afraid our help has had unforeseen circumstances. Are you… mad?”

“...no,” Napoleon answered, which was partially the truth. He wasn’t mad at Coffee right now, but instead at… _Brownie, seriously? You couldn’t think of a better plan than_ that _? You know B-52 is_ terrible _at normal socialising, let alone acting!_

“Alas, it seemed our plan backfired,” Chocolate sighed. “Well, what do you suppose we do?”

“Break them up immediately, of course,” Gluten said. Napoleon’s mind had to catch up to realise that Gluten meant their _fight_ , that’s right, they didn’t know they were even together, and Napoleon’s slight worry jumped immediately back to annoyance. He had been informed of the details of the gang’s little plan along the way, and all Napoleon was think was: _Come on, Brownie, I know you’re wearing the maid stuff! And you’re embarrassed about it! Why aren’t you using the time to change out!? They’ll catch you!_

“Hey, wait, they’ve gone quiet,” Chocolate suddenly realised. Napoleon’s blood ran cold on behalf of his friends when his next sentence was, “I think this is a great opportunity to check on them.”

“Hey, hey, hey, wait!” Napoleon blurted out, trying not to squirm. “Maybe we should leave them alone to, I don’t know, talk things out? It’s like, important for them to talk and communicate and stuff because that’s what couples need to do, right? And it’s kinda private and stuff and if we butt in isn’t that like super disrespectful, or? I mean they’re my friends and I don’t want them to hate each other but maybe we should give them like a little more time or like a lot more time!”

The trio looked at him for a few moments before turning to each other to discuss the best course of action. Napoleon looked toward the changing room, trying his best to glare a hole through the wall. _Guys, come on! I can’t delay them forever! You need to do something now!_

.

“Uh… Brownie, I uh… kinda ran out of lines to yell back?”

“...well, so have I.”

Brownie was panting slightly. He had probably yelled a little too much. B-52 was faring slightly better, but not quite. B-52 whispered, “Brownie, what else am I supposed to say?”

“To be honest, I’m having trouble coming up with lines as well,” Brownie admitted. He crossed the room, now confident enough to wrap his arms around B-52’s back, an action that sent a shiver rippling through B-52’s body. Brownie looked up at him with all too beautiful blue eyes. “Not least because I could never imagine myself fighting with you.”

At this rate, B-52 was never going to get his breath back if Brownie kept stealing it away. He chuckled nervously. “You know, I’d say our operation is a total bust.”

The next thing to come busting _open_ was the door, and B-52 and Brownie could only look dumbly at it for a few moments before B-52 realised that the promise of getting revenge had blinded them to the dangers outside. 

What had been their plan again? To make the trio think they now hated each other and see them blame themselves for it. Hilariously karmic, yes, but they had failed to take into account that… well… _everything_. The lock that one of them could _freely disable_ being the major thing.

...well, damn it. B-52 watched in shock and horror that was freely echoed on his partner’s own face as the trio’s unreadable expressions turned into gazes Of absolute smugness. Chocolate raised a finger to his chin, stroking it in thought. “You know, Brownie, you must be blind, because I’d say B-52 likes it plenty much.”

“I… that’s… I…” Brownie stammered with absolute incredulity. B-52 just stared back, his eyes flitting over to Napoleon in the background, who was rapidly shaking his head and crossing his arms in a giant ‘x’, looking rather… disappointed? In any case, when B-52 looked back at the trio’s stupid faces, he abruptly remembered the fact that he wished to punch their faces in.

“Ooh, what’s with the new look, B-52?” Gluten crooned, sickeningly sweet. “You look absolutely desirable -”

“I’ve had just enough of you assholes today!” B-52 barked out, storming towards the trio and grabbing the idiot in the center, Coffee, by the the collar of his shirt. His eyebrows twitched. “Where is my weapon?”

“I’m not going to give it to you in this state.”

B-52 let out a sigh of pure irritation. “Fine. Master Attendant won’t let me kill you guys, but Master Attendant _will_ make you give it back to me when they hear about this, so you might as well do it now.”

“Very well.” Coffee fished the cane out of his back pocket while coughing and trying not to choke. When B-52 received his cane back, he ran a hand along it, relieved to see that his precious weapon hadn’t been damaged. At least Coffee was responsible. B-52 would give him that.

“Please release me,” Coffee added. Chocolate and Gluten nodded, though Napoleon seemed to be rubbing his hands together in glee. “Beat his face in, B-52!” he cheered.

B-52’s eyes wandered over to where Brownie was sitting down, hunched over, his eyes wide in surprise. He had yet to say a word, as if he was still having trouble taking anything in. When he noticed B-52 looking over, though, Brownie slowly got up on shaky ankles. “Please don’t do this again,” he said in what might be the very worst understatement of the century, in B-52’s opinion.

“But it worked, didn’t it?” Chocolate said with a grin that quickly withered when he was unfortunate enough to be the next target of B-52’s glare of pure ice.

“Actually, we -”

Brownie elbowed him in the side, cutting B-52 off. The blond blinked in surprise, dropping Coffee’s collar as Brownie quickly said, “I suppose so, but even then I’m going to have a hard time restraining my friends from killing you if you keep this up.”

“Don’t worry. We have no intention to.” Coffee said, probably because he was trying to get on B-52’s good side. However, than he turned to his accomplices, saying in a stern tone, “Isn’t that right?” 

Chocolate’s lips twitched, as if he was trying to smile but afraid to when B-52 was glaring at him like that. _I gotta keep an eye on him,_ B-52 thought darkly.

Gluten rolled her eyes and scoffed, but this time it seemed a little more fond in nature. “Well, that seemed to work mighty well.”

“Perhaps a little meddling with the guy in the back and Pastel is in order?” Chocolate had the mistake of musing out loud. Looking down to hide his exceptionally red face, Napoleon‘s fingers twitched on the trigger of his gun. 

“Ooh, what’s this?” Napoleon suddenly spoke up, an oddly perky bounce to his voice. B-52 blinked once and somehow Napoleon had already dashed past the trio. Grabbing B-52 and Brownie with a hand on each of them, Napoleon gave the trio an extremely charming smile that had B-52 shivering. 

“Sorry, gotta go!” Napoleon said all too sweetly.

“Napoleon, what are you - mmph!” B-52 was forced to eat his words as Napoleon hauled him past startled onlookers with strength a small food soul like him should not have possessed. He opened his mouth, about to ask why again, when Napoleon stopped in front of a middle-aged lady with deep brown hair up in a bun. 

“The ones who are responsible for the damage are the three over there,” he said with a wink and a nod in their direction. “And add the clothes he’s wearing -” Napoleon gestured at B-52, “- to the bill.”

B-52 only got a few seconds to gaze upon the glorious sight that was Coffee, Chocolate and Gluten paling considerably before he was dragged out of view.

Napoleon dragged them all outside, dumping them on the ground. “If Master Attendant asks, it’s their fault,” Napoleon said brightly.

“Of course,” Brownie agreed. He stood up to reveal that he had had the foresight to pick up his butler clothes shortly before Napoleon had apprehended them both.

B-52 grimaced. “No debate there.” But now that they were outside in the sunlight, he couldn’t help but noticed the way the sunlight streamed through Brownie’s dark hair, casting him in warm, golden tones, the way light was reflecting on the metal… hold on, was Brownie wearing a sort of collar? B-52 sought hard not to let his mind run away with the information.

“You guys didn’t change,” Napoleon observed. “Why?”

Brownie grinned sheepishly, shrugging. “We were… probably getting ahead of ourselves there. Our desire for revenge outweighed any common sense we might have had left.”

“I get it.” Napoleon smirked, crossing his arms as he leaned against a wall. “So it’s because you guys were in your own world, huh?”

B-52 blinked, the words taking a moment to register, and when they did, he had to resist the urge to light Napoleon on fire. “No, we just forgot that they could open the door,” he muttered with a furious blush on his cheeks.

“So you mean yes.” Napoleon grinned. Dodging a punch from B-52, he scampered off in the direction of their restaurant, pulling a face at them as he ran for cover.

Brownie and B-52 looked at each other. 

“Think we can quarantine him with those assholes?”

“I say we steal his hat one day.”


	34. Second Shot

Dinner was good. B-52 got to sit with Brownie and Napoleon and watch smugly as Master Attendant chewed Coffee, Chocolate and Gluten out with all the ferocity of a wild boar. They at least had had the decency to look sheepish and not try to blame them for anything, though he noticed their eyes flicking over at their table occasionally. The nonverbal reply was always the same. _Too bad. You got what was coming,_ B-52 grinned.

So maybe he was enjoying this just a little too much, but could anyone blame him?

The trio had gotten tasked with many, _many_ restaurant duties for the rest of the week; heads down and despondent looks on their faces, B-52 held a little sympathy for them, but only a little. Those troublemakers had indeed cost Master Attendant a large chunk of money in repairs and reputation, a stinging blow they would all be sure to feel for the seasons to come. B-52 patted the most cooperative member of the team, Coffee, on the back as he strolled past at a leisurely pace, essentially rubbing it in to all three of their faces that he was free as could be.

 _Alright, now that I’ve gone and done that…_ B-52 rounded the corner back to where his room was. Nope, he wasn’t going to allow them to goad him into stooping to their shitty level, and that meant putting as much distance between them as possible. B-52 didn’t trust himself right now. He had proven thoroughly that he was not to be trusted with impulse control.

And also, B-52 would really like to avoid thinking about those assholes right about now. Not just because they were… well, assholes, but because thinking about them would inevitably lead to thoughts about himself being kidnapped, and then Brownie being kidnapped, and then… no, that was a dangerous train of thought. Cheeks flushed with colour, B-52 reached his destination, a hand in place on his doorknob.

“B-52?”

The blond food soul froze, his exposed eye darting over his shoulder to where the butler stood. His usual uniform was back in place, apron hanging off his waist and delicious-looking hat perched on top of his head. Brownie flicked his ears at him as a greeting. Was it just B-52, or was Brownie totally getting used to them _Brownie was getting used to them he was going to learn how to do all sorts of tricks and B-52 was going to die._

Coughing and feigning composure, B-52 fought to keep his voice even, pretending he had not just been thinking of his partner in a certain light. “Brownie, what brings you here?” he asked, pretty happy with himself for only letting a bit of his excitement seep through the cracks of a carefully neutral tone.

“I’ve been relieved of cleanup duties, remember?” Brownie cocked his head to the side.

It took B-52 a few moments, cogs and gears whirring as he processed it. Not breaking his gaze from Brownie’s, he simply stated, “You have some free time right now.”

“It appears so.” Brownie stepped forward neatly as Omurice ran past, with Pudding chasing after him yelling something about proper etiquette. Still looking at B-52, he asked, “Is it alright if I come in again? To...” Brownie shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I mean, for a while, I suppose… if that’s alright.”

Brownie had asked him a question, damn it, a question. The thing was: B-52 for some reason found himself trapped by nerves that sizzled and crackled like stray wires. Damn it, where was his confidence? He had definitely gotten a bit reckless today... B-52 swore said confidence had evaporated the moment those bastards had caught them all tangled together and lovey dovey. Even now, he flushed at the memory. God, he was never going to live that one down, was he? He just hoped that Coffee would keep Chocolate and Gluten in check. Otherwise he’d just have to join Napoleon on his next murdering spree.

Nevertheless, he enjoyed being near Brownie, being next to him… and just like that, his mind was made up for him. a bright blue eye shifted around the walls as B-52 kept on high alert for any spies. Finally concluding that Brownie would have heard any before him anyway, B-52 relaxed a little before he offered, “I would lo-like for you to visit,” rather hastily.

Brownie ducked his head down out of a sudden wave of shyness. “Ah. Yes. Th-thank you.”

 _Damn it, B-52._ Trying to while away a grievous case of the jitters, B-52 forced his door open a little harder than he needed to and led the way in, closing the door after Brownie entered.

“What do you want?” B-52 tossed out, blinking when he realised that Brownie took a step back at that. Softening his tone, he said, “Uh… I mean… what would you like to do?”

Flattened cat ears perked up at that. “Well, I… I simply wanted to thank you for the patience you showed me today.” Nervous fingers digged into the gloved palms of his hands. “Quite simply, I cannot thank you enough. You’ve given me confidence, rather subtly, to…”

“What’s that, Brownie? Quit talking like you’re from a century ago,” B-52 teased, attempting to lighten his mood.

“Oh! My apologies.” Brownie laughed nervously. “I mean, I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m just kinda nervous is all.”

“Yeah? Well, so am I, you ruffian.” Despite his harsh words, there was a fond smile on his face. “What’s your excuse?”

“Pardon me, but my excuse is perfectly valid.”

B-52 barked out a laugh. “There we go. Now we’re getting into the spirit of things.”

Brownie fixed him with a quizzical expression, even if he did step closer, and now B-52 found himself being filled with the temptation to reach out and… repeat activities from earlier today. Brownie being happy was good. Brownie purring was good. B-52 had an inkling suspicion he would never get tired of hearing it. And well, maybe it was doing some good for him. Brownie looked more full of energy than he had been in a while, the dark eyebags from overwork chased away for the time being.

Even if all that energy _was_ currently being channeled into awkwardly standing up rimrod straight and seeming at a loss of how to proceed. 

Wait. Fuck. Right. Brownie had thanked him, and here he was being the biggest dumbass that had ever existed. Who the fuck got so distracted thinking about someone that was just. Right. _There._ Pushing away his expletive-ridden thoughts, B-52 said, “Yeah, well, you aren’t so bad it it yourself.” Then, smacking himself upside the head internally, muttered, “Thanks.”

In return, Brownie nodded. “And… I must say, although their interference in our lives will surely not be missed,” Brownie said as his eyes darkened, “I must admit that today was… rather enjoyable.”

 _That’s good,_ B-52 probably should have said. _I enjoyed myself too,_ like any sane person would. Instead, all that tumbled out of B-52’s mouth was, “You were really cute.”

Brownie averted his gaze. “I-I appreciate the sentiment,” he said, looking stubbornly everywhere but at his partner. If Brownie had a tail to go along with his cat ears, B-52 was certain it would be lashing about endlessly. 

_Hanging out together… alone…_ B-52 felt his heart squeeze all of a sudden, enough for him to gasp out a small breath. He had no idea why these feelings were the way they were, but it was all part of being human, right? He had wanted to know what it was like to feel more… _feelings of being alive_ , as he had put it. If this was a natural part of the human condition, and as a double bonus, he got to share it with Brownie, B-52 decided that he rather liked being alive.

A sudden thought struck him: that being the venue of the next chance for B-52 to experience such things again. Maybe more fully. Maybe? “I’ll… see you at the practice range in a few days.” Grimacing, B-52 rolled his right shoulder, then his left. “Damn, being dragged around like that probably set me back like a day.”

“Are you sure? There’s no rush. We could always postpone the date.”

“Trust me, Brownie. You’re…” _...my incentive for getting well much sooner,_ B-52 found himself wanting to say in theory and tripping over the words in practice. “...great at looking after me,” he finished lamely.

Brownie’s smile was small but gentle, and B-52 felt like it lit up his dingy room better than the small lamp on his right ever could. “I’m really happy to hear that,” Brownie replied with mild amusement stirring his words. “Although, as your doctor I must advise you rest now. You’ve had a long day.”

“So have you.” B-52 took his chance to settle down on his own bed, blankets still tossed all over the floor from this morning. “Those pesky kidnappings always set you back a day or two in the recovery process,” B-52 said in mock despair.

Brownie clicked his tongue. “Rather dreadful, really. I hear a virus is spreading. Unfortunately, your doctor has been infected and also needs rest.” Dropping the playful act, Brownie inched closer, bowing his head so he was eye level with B-52. He found himself caught up in the butler’s intoxicating sweet scent, instinct moving his limbs so he was leaning forward for more.

“Goodnight,” Brownie whispered, fingers trailing magic down the slightly exposed skin beneath B-52’s glove. Damn it. What was he doing? At this rate, he was going to lose his train of thought, because Brownie was so goddamn… irresistible.

B-52 fumbled, his hands feeling like they were crawling all over and being wildly inappropriate, but here they were, and it was dark, and… didn’t most do something when it was time to say goodnight? B-52 finally opted for reaching out and touching Brownie’s arm with a softness his mechanical limb often lacked, a softness he hadn’t known it could show if Brownie hadn’t allowed him to stroke his cheek like that the other day… 

So out of sorts was B-52 that he almost let out a murmur of disappointment as Brownie drew away. “Goodnight,” he said again, back turning to open the door, and somehow, something made B-52 call out: “Wait!”

Brownie paused, responsibility and temptation visibly battling it out in his mind. “Yes?” he dared to venture.

B-52 just stopped and walked up to Brownie and then just stopped and stared and now they were embroiled in some kind of weird staring contest. Discomfort pricked at B-52’s skin, crawling all the way down his back. “Actually, I don't know,” he admitted the moment he blinked to admit defeat. “No I mean -” Looked up. “No I just -” Down. “I mean, I-I guess…” Up again. Brownie looked confused.

“T-today. This morning, you, um… you kissed me…” B-52 pointed at his forehead obscured by messy blond bangs. Now, his heart pounded at the memory. “You kissed me up here.”

Brownie did not relent in his staring, but said stare _did_ grow horrified. Dropping his gaze, Brownie punctuated every word with a dip of his head. “I’m so, so sorry! I don't know what came over me, and I just did it without considering your feelings.”

“Brownie. Brownie, hey. I’m not mad.” B-52 made several gestures of placation. “In fact…” _Damn it._ B-52 licked his bottom lip, looking at how his partner currently resembled an injured animal trapped in a cage, ears flat against his brown hair. He didn't know if he should say it, but… it had felt so soft, so soothing, so affectionate unlike nothing he had been shown before.

“Actually, Brownie, I want more,” he heard himself saying before he could take it back.

If Brownie had been frozen before, now he resembled something fished out of the lakes in Nevras. B-52 bit his lip. _Damn it damn it damn it now I’ve ruined it AGAIN why do I always ruin things,_ he spat at himself, only to be interrupted with a quiet, “You’d like… a forehead kiss?”

“I…” Brownie was being so specific. It was making his mind race towards other, more forbidden kisses he had seen adults swap while wandering around for the past decades or so. On the cheeks, on the lips… B-52 had even heard talks of kisses in other strange places that had always made him seek out some convenient excuse to leave immediately. But no. He was getting ahead of himself here. Brownie wasn't ready and he doubted he was either. So for now, B-52 settled himself with a nod. It didn't matter what type of kiss it was. If it was from Brownie, he would accept one wholeheartedly.

Brownie flashed him an uncertain look. “If you're sure,” he said cautiously. When B-52 did nothing to contradict that statement, in fact trying to hold himself back from vibrating all over the damn place from excitement, Brownie leaned forward, propping himself up by the tiptoe to brush back B-52’s bangs.

Even the small touch had B-52 leaning into it, instinctively searching out his partner’s warmth. This time, when his lips met B-52’s forehead, it seemed less hurried. Gentle. Warm. B-52 could almost let out a purr of his own as his eyes fell shut. 

It was over much too soon, and when B-52 opened his eyes again all he could see was Brownie, lost in the sight, scent, smell of him. Eyes half-lidded, he let out a murmur of satisfaction. Alright then, that could be his own version. “Thank you,” B-52 said quietly, replaying the touch and the kiss in his mind over and over again. This wasn't quite anything like a kiss on the… on the lips, but B-52 would treasure it all the same. It was from Brownie, his most precious partner - and boyfriend - after all.

Brownie himself seemed a little dazed and out of breath, though he gladly accepted B-52’s sneaky sneaky attempts to thread their fingers together. “I should be thanking you,” he replied, telltale warmth simmering below the surface of his polite words.

They stood there for a few moments more before Brownie withdrew for the second time. “No more objections?” he teased, although B-52 could see his own longing mirrored in the butler’s sky blue eyes.

“...no.” He knew Brownie was tired. 

“Alright then.” A gloved hand rested on the doorknob. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well.” With one last look, Brownie closed the door without a sound, leaving B-52 to stand there stupidly and abruptly realise he was sweating up a storm. And he felt dizzy, like he was about to collapse from a heart attack or something.

...well then.

 _What the hell. I’m doing everything wrong._ B-52 jumped into bed and pulled the mattress over his eye, refusing to take his eyepatch off. All he could think of was his embarrassment, and Brownie, and his happiness, and Brownie, and his anticipation… at seeing Brownie again.

B-52 didn't move.

Napoleon was right. 

He really, really, _really_ had it bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like a good place to end things for the first "arc". (Ie chapters 1-34)
> 
> Theyll go on an actual date soon i swear


	35. In Retrospect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting the second ‘arc’, so thats why chapters kinda read like a new beginning  
> However, this second arc isn’t at the top of my priorities right now, and coupled with some school extras, there will most likely be much slower updates.

Days passed by with refreshing normalcy, save for the fact that the idiot trio couldn’t seem to actually work to save their life. Gluten had no prior restaurant work experience, and it wouldn't have been half as terrible if Coffee and Chocolate could actually keep anything in line, but...

“Sometimes I wonder if they’re doing this on purpose to get off work,” Master Attendant sighed to Brownie one day, plopping down tiredly at one of the restaurant’s free tables. The sheer fact that free tables were a common sight when there used to be little to none in the restaurant spoke volumes about the impact of the trio’s actions. Who, by the way, Brownie was actively having to restrain helping at this point.

“Chocolate!” There was a resounding crash from the kitchen. Brownie and Master Attendant winced. _Not again._ “For goodness sake, did you really not notice me handing the plates to you?”

“Coffee, calm down - I was only -”

“You know, if you’d stop flirting with _everyone_ when you’re waitering, I bet your work performance would improve drastically.”

“That’s really hilarious coming from _you_. Do you remember how many orders you screwed up last night?”

“The hell?! I thought we agreed to shut up about that!”

“No whips in here! This isn't the time for the bitterness of angels!”

“Coffee’s the only one who really knows what he’s doing,” Master Attendant sighed, biting into the cake Brownie had prepared just because he felt that they really, really needed a break from all of this nonsense. With a spoon to their lips, they added, “If only he wouldn't speak so cryptically all the time.”

“Indeed,” Brownie said, adding his observations to the mix. “If he could only get Chocolate to actually do his bidding, I’m sure they would make an effective team.”

“You’re right. And then Gluten wouldn’t have to suffer as much, would she?”

Brownie nodded, sparing a glance to the rest of the kitchen food souls who were all sitting down and twiddling their fingers, looking like they very much wanted to run in and… do whatever it was to get things running again. A yell of “No whips in the kitchen!” from Coffee had sent many of the kitchen food souls from mildly concerned to all-out worry. After a few moments, with another sigh, Master Attendant nodded at Pudding, who was twisting his apron into knots. With a grateful nod, Pudding left to sort the idiots out.

Brownie looked between Master Attendant and where Pudding had left, feeling slightly stung at the fact that he hadn't been chosen to do the honours. He had been outright begging to help over the past few days. But yet he wasn't chosen. Was he not good enough? B-52’s face surfaced again in Brownie’s mind, blond waves framing his face and the sharp line of his jaw, his eyes the intense blue they were.

Outwardly, Brownie flushed. _Then again, with my current track record at work, it was probably for the best…_

“Your ears are drooping, Brownie.” Brownie blinked, forcibly raising them back to neutral position before getting ready to apologise approximately a thousand times more. Master Attendant, however, placed a finger to their lips, lips that were quirked upwards in a smile. “You’re thinking about work again, aren’t you?”

Caught, Brownie could only thank the heavens for his inability to form visible blushes as his ears fluttered rapidly and he wrung his hands together. “Well, Master Attendant, I…”

“Don’t fret.” Their hand descended on the spot between Brownie’s cat ears. “If Coffee, Chocolate and Gluten can’t do their jobs properly, I’ll have the others cover for you. You were one of their targets, so I find it fair that they take over your duties.”

Brownie bowed slightly. “I see, Master Attendant.”

“Besides, you’ve worked so hard ever since I summoned you that I think you need a break.” Master Attendant ruffled Brownie’s dark hair just a little bit. “All work and no play isn’t a good recipe, Brownie.”

Brownie’s mind immediately jumped to the thought, _I’ve made Master Attendant worry,_ before realisation sunk in with their words. 

Many food souls had been mistreated, or far worse, by their Master Attendants. When he had crossed paths with other souls, he often had to listen, spellbound by the horror, of many, many dark stories that no food soul should have had to tell. Brownie’s current Master Attendant’s actions were ultimately small, but Brownie appreciated them for what they did. It was a refreshing change of pace from the usual, something that Brownie felt that he could get used to.

The pace of the restaurant was nothing like the throes of battle, but there was a different kind of rush all the same: the hustle and bustle of customers and the prevalence of dine and dashers. There were different skills, too: knowing just when to add the _right_ pinch of salt, a light dusting of pepper... Brownie appreciated each and every quiet moment, even if they didn’t mean much to some of the battle-eager food souls. This current life he led was an opportunity, a chance to learn, and an opening to continuously strive for improvement.

With the image of B-52 lingering in his mind, Brownie knew that he now had much more to learn: a treasure trove of many, many different, distinct possibilities in navigating this strange new realm of relationships.

Left ear twitching, Brownie raised his head, saying softly, “Thank you for thinking of me, Master Attendant.”

“Of course. It’s no problem.” Master Attendant gave Brownie a smile that creased their eyelids, giving their face a kind, warm glow. “Would you like to tell me why they were targeting you and B-52 specifically, though?”

With an awkward cough, Brownie looked away, heat rapidly rising in his cheeks.


	36. Scanning: Target Acquired

“Hey, good job,” Bamboo said, his usual enthusiasm written all over his face. His expression instantly fell when the slender, pale woman simply gave his outstretched hand a look and shook it exactly once, a air of complete detachment surrounding her. With a whisk of her head, she turned to lead the way back to the restaurant, hovering a few inches above the grass.

B-52 watched her go, getting to his feet and spreading his own mechanical wings. The metal scraped briefly against the bones of his shoulders, making him wince slightly. Fortunately, he had mostly recovered from the beating he had taken a while back. “I’m fine,” he assured a worried Milk who had approached him.

“I’m not!” Bamboo whined, slumping over dramatically as he kept pace with B-52. Black Tea and Milk turned and swapped suspicious, knowing looks with each other. B-52 tried to keep his features in a neutral expression just like a certain someone he knew as Bamboo kept on yakking and yakking on. “I miss Tom Yum,” Bamboo sighed loudly, allowing his green hair to drape over his eyes.

“Don’t say that so loudly,” Milk said flatly. She cast her gaze on their retreating teammate, where fairy wings sprouted from Foie’s back. B-52 himself looked at them with more than a little curiosity. 

_Do they work the same way as mine?_ B-52 wondered. Did those wings scrape against skin the way metal did? No, probably not. Foie’s wings were graceful, elegant, beautiful things, light dancing through them and painting a gold sheen on the translucent images. They didn’t inspire fear in others the way B-52’s did, didn’t bulk her figure up to make her appear menacing. Instead, Foie Gras fluttered along, graceful as a fairy.

Bamboo just laughed, shaking his head, messing up his already wild hair even further. “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. She never lets anything get to her!”

“I just wonder why she’s so… cold,” Milk mused. The second she realised she had said it out loud, she blinked, surprise flashing in her cool gray eyes. Pale cheeks red, she averted her eyes from Black Tea. A seemingly wise decision, considering the normally gentle, stoic woman had a certain quirk to her lips that implied just a smidgeon of mischief.

B-52 awkwardly looked away from the lovers’ rapid-fire changes in facial expressions, choosing instead to focus on anything but the fact that Napoleon had referred to his and Brownie’s relationship as a ‘Black Tea and Milk situation’. Oh crap. He was thinking about it now. Of course.

B-52 tried not to satisfy his curiosity. Heavens knew he had already had his hands full with Chocolate, Coffee and Gluten, as well as several others. The blond had no doubt in his mind that Black Tea and Milk had been on the receiving end of such gossip as well. He tried to give them some privacy, but it was hard to ignore them when Bamboo had dashed off to try to forcefully pry conversation from Foie’s icy clutches.

Finally unable to help it, a lone blue eye flicked over to where the couple seemed to be having a silent argument with only their eyes. The split second he caught himself doing it he looked away, blinking away shame.

It was the first time B-52 had been back on the team after his injury, and Napoleon’s comment had caused him to look at the two women in a new light. Now everything made more sense to him: the brush of hands against each other, the reassuring smiles they seemed to reserve only for each other, the overall softness they seem to regard each other with that just wasn’t present otherwise.

Crap, B-52 was noticing _everything_. Embarrassed and a little angry at himself for giving in to the urge, he trained his exposed eye firmly on some random tree in the near distance. _Count the number of leaves. One, two, three, thirty… a hundred?_

It wasn’t really working. B-52 was still itching with the want to maybe… ask them for a few pointers. On how to deal with this. On how to deal with everything. On how the hell they just seemed so perfect for each other, because… and it was at this point B-52 felt a little tremor go through him as he chanced upon the forbidden thought he thought he had managed to conquer somewhat. One step forward, one step back.

_I don’t know if Brownie will like me this way._

Sure, Brownie had said as such, multiple times, in many different ways, but every so often B-52 would get this sneaking thought, creeping into his mind, preying on the positivity he had gained from such memories of Brownie. B-52 didn’t really want to feel this way, and he didn’t think anyone else did either. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t let himself dwell on this for two long. He’d shove it away forcefully, but apparently today B-52 couldn’t quite hold off on comparing himself to the graceful snow queen right in front of him.

It was dragging on for so long. _I should stop pitying myself,_ B-52 decided for what was probably the third time this week. Once again, he snuck a glance over at Black Tea and Milk. 

They looked… happy.

Milk had her hands clasped over her mouth, but B-52 could see just the ends of her lips, and they certainly weren’t in the neutral position they always were. Black Tea herself was saying something rather softly, something that was definitely for Milk’s ears only. Red eyes lost their edge, instead resembling warm fire.

 _I’ve seen enough,_ B-52 decided, and was just about to put on his best behaviour and _stop_ looking at them like some weirdo when Black Tea leaned down.

It was as if all the gears and cogs in B-52’s mind were turning. Everything whizzed by in slow motion - the dipping of Black Tea’s head, the slight jostling of the pastel hat sitting on her head, and the time when she closed the last inch between her and Milk.

_Black Tea was kissing Milk._

B-52 instantly ripped his eyes from the sight, desperate to both give the couple some privacy and to redeem himself for this grievous sin. _What was that?_ B-52 yelled internally. Flustered, his wings beat a little faster than normal, causing B-52 in his absent-minded state to crash head-first into a startled bunch of leaves.

“Woah!” said the green thing. B-52 rubbed his head, eye blurry. Oh. Bamboo. Right. B-52 glanced between Bamboo and his new teammate, Foie, eyes starting to steady and real shame starting to settle in. 

“Yeah,” B-52 replied, daring to chance a glance back where their remaining two teammates were. B-52 blinked when he realised that neither of them seemed to have noticed the brief commotion in front of them. Instead, they carried on walking, eyes fixed on each other. Cheeks still burning red, B-52 decided that that was enough flying for the day. He dropped to his feet, keeping pace beside Bamboo as he talked and gestured frantically to Foie.

“Hey, hey, so what kinda food do you like to eat?”

“I don’t eat often.”

“Okaayyyy, but if you were given the chance to?”

“If I were given the chance, I’d save the food for humans who might need some.”

“Oh.” Bamboo drooped a little. “Okay, but say you’re at an all-you-can-eat buffet…”

Tuning them out and residue red still draining from his skin, B-52 concluded that just observing Black Tea and Milk had given him some idea of what was going on. Namely, the fact that they were very much in love with each other, and they seemed so… so secure. So stable, like nothing could tear them apart. They could understand each other without words. They seemed to comfort each other when no one else was able.

It almost… it almost made him… B-52 felt an unknown feeling well up in his chest. It made him want, it made him feel… like something right now wasn’t enough. Curious, B-52 went scanning through his databanks, a task he wasn’t fond of performing but could be quite handy in a pinch. _Jealousy?_ No. _Envy?_ …maybe.

It wasn’t like he and Brownie were far off. On the contrary, since he had met the other food soul they had formed a close connection between partners. It was second nature to him at this point to look after the smaller food soul both in battle and out. Stealing another glance at the couple beside him, B-52 decided that he, however, required more practice in the romance department.

How was he even supposed to act now that they were also… B-52 flushed. Their official status, though still kept beneath wraps, gave him a little spark of happiness that trailed all the way down to the tips of his toes. No, it wasn’t like they hadn’t done anything at all either. 

B-52 bristled at the thought of the changing room incident.

Damn it.

Despite all of that. B-52 decided that he wanted what Black Tea and Milk had, except with a certain serious, capable, adorably cat-eared butler. He wanted to be like that with him too. _To be so comfortable with each other like that,_ B-52 wondered in slight awe. _Ugh. I don’t think we’re ready for being like that in public yet. Hell, we haven’t even done anything yet._ Then, B-52’s legs shook a little as he remembered the two forehead kisses he had received from Brownie so far, affectionate and in private. _And that was fine,_ B-52 decided, because he’d always gotten flack for rushing and ruining things, and he wasn’t about to repeat this very same instinct with Brownie now that he was within his grasp.

Maybe he was getting ahead of himself. But for now, B-52’s final, most important conclusion, was that they might not be anywhere near there yet, but he wished for his relationship with Brownie to resemble theirs someday.

And as though his heart had grown wings of their own, B-52 thought, _And I guess I can start today._


	37. Baked Brownies

Brownie gulped. The gloved fingers around the sleek, smooth metal twitched. He stared at himself in the mirror, still feeling a prickle of feeling clutching at his chest. Heat seemed to pool in his cheeks as he did nothing but stare and stare.

It was late afternoon. Which meant, in an hour or so, he was going to B-52’s room to ask him to go somewhere on their preplanned arrangement. Naturally, the thought of being able to spend some much-needed time together was appealing, tempting as always. After B-52 had finally recovered and been placed back on battle duty, Brownie had sorely missed his partner. Their interactions had been limited to lazy chats and brief cuddles at night, for Brownie’s fears of keeping the other up for too long. Being able to spend any time together from now on was like a soothing ointment spread over sore wounds.

So why was Brownie hesitating?

The decision to leave out some of the accessories, namely the collar and mouthpiece, was one that he was having trouble _not_ making, since Brownie was quite positive they were drawing unnecessary attention to his slender neck. At least with the headband, Brownie could justify to himself that everyone could already see the obvious cat ears on his head.

It simply didn’t make sense, this apprehension he was feeling. It wasn’t like everyone in the restaurant hadn’t already seen him in this new outfit. 

Actually, no, wait. That was wrong. Foie Gras, for one, had been welcomed by him when he was wearing his usual butler getup. That wasn’t to mention the other food souls that had recently been summoned: Hotdog, Sake, and Salad, just to name a few. They certainly hadn’t been in the loop. With growing uncertainty, Brownie realised that the longer he put off changing his appearance, the more attention it was going to garner.

Brownie lowered the gun in his hands, cat ears drooping. He let out a long, lengthy breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding back.

 _This doesn’t make any sense,_ he repeated to himself. His shoes went _thud, thud_ as Brownie paced around and around agitatedly. Occasionally, he sidestepped just to pet down the carpet he had messed up. _I have to sort some things out,_ Brownie finally decided. With that, wrinkling the fabric of his long gloves as he gripped at them, Brownie went to sit down on his bed, back hunched over as he puzzled over the emotions surging within him.

 _Reasons for why I should do this,_ Brownie began in his mind, making a mental list like the methodological person he was. _By all rights, wearing this outfit is Master Attendant’s command. It’s only because of their kindness that I could opt out. Secondly, it’s… not that bad, but then… why? Thirdly, it’s a good idea for practice, at the very least. The other food souls have uniforms to go with their weapons as well, so this isn’t any different. Fourthly… fourthly, B-52 liked it._ With that thought, Brownie flustered as he realised that the anxiety he had already felt seemed to spike. Right. B-52 was a reason. Definitely. They were meeting later, after all.

Sky blue eyes rested on the gleaming steel of the rifle that Brownie had left unattended on his desk. It was sitting there, almost innocently and yet tauntingly, as if it was the cause of all of Brownie’s distress. It was certainly nothing like his old, trusty blaster that Brownie had always kept on him through thick and thin. If his old weapon was like a large, powerful, heavy hitter, Brownie’s new rifle was a slender, supple maiden with light but deadly acrobatics. If Brownie took off his nostalgia lenses, maybe he would, in fact, prefer this new addition to his collection.

Of course, taking the rifle for a test drive meant actually doing something.

 _But if I go out like this…_ Brownie sighed and stared at where his shoes met the carpet. _Others will see._ It took a little while longer before Brownie straightened up with the realisation: _I don’t like the attention._

For some time, Brownie blanked his mind out in a deliberate show of misplaced caution, just in case some… mind reader was there. It was rather childish, all things considered, but Brownie suddenly felt excruciatingly insecure. The instinct lasted for only a few moments, anyway, after which Brownie stood up and approached the mirror again, trying to project confidence in every step he took forward.

 _I understand,_ Brownie thought, frowning in concentration, taking a few moments to reach for his red tie and adjust it, his hands working instinctually for a way to keep himself calm. That manifested in the way Brownie had been fussing over his maid outfit for what seemed to him like hours, the slightest ruffle out of place, a nervous habit that Brownie should probably quit doing.

And so, forcing himself to confront the problem, Brownie finally told himself, _It’s fine, it’s fine, it will be fine. It’s just B-52 and you, and if anything else, the attention you got was very positive. It will be alright. You can trust B-52,_ the brunet repeated to himself like a mantra as he stared in the mirror. _He’s your partner. You can trust him. He won’t judge._

Brownie’s self-consciousness probably wouldn’t fix itself overnight, but the strange talk he had given himself _was_ helping him somewhat. _Just avoid the other food souls, and hopefully you’ll be fine._

Maybe it was a little dumb, but Brownie couldn’t quite pinpoint why he felt in this manner even after every compliment he had gotten from the others, from the customers, hell, even B-52 - _He thinks I look cute,_ Brownie suddenly remembered. This time, when he looked into the mirror, he saw the faint echo of a smile on his face, the familliar stirrings of a certain warmth settling itself into his heart.

This was alright. Maybe if Brownie focused on the positive feelings that B-52 was giving him, he would be able to, in his own words, clamber over this seemingly self-imposed obstacle in time.

Still hesitant, Brownie continued to examine his reflection. As if acting under command, Brownie did a twirl. He observed the way the ruffled pleats fluttered around him and the the way the skirt fell around his legs again. Looking down and then up into his own eyes, Brownie finally decided, _I’m as ready as I’ll ever be._

Brownie tiptoed over to his door with gun in hand. He paused, risking one final glance at it, as if afraid that any movement would give away his position. It gleamed golden as the setting sun struck the metal, as if saying, _Yep. Let’s go._

Brownie sighed, prayed that he wouldn’t bump into too many nosy food souls, and with his new weapon with him, creaked the door open inch by inch. _I will be fine,_ Brownie repeated in his mind one last time. Cat ears perked up to catch the faintest trace of sound, Brownie slowly, quietly, shut his door and snuck off down the hallway.

If he was going to be a cat for life, Brownie was thankful that stealth came as part of the package.


	38. Not Quite The Charm

B-52 was pacing.

There was a faint mechanical whirr emitting from his engines as he circled his room round and round like a shark in its tank.

Brownie was coming here to meet him and he _wasn’t ready damn it_. For some reason, the thought of seeing Brownie, amidst the happy flutters, sent shivers curling up his spine. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it - he felt… not good. It felt like nervousness and nausea was rolling into a giant snowball in the chilly depths of his heart, but at its center, a burning warmth… that was dampened by the fact that he kind of wanted to throw up and die at the same time.

One thing was certain: Brownie’s sheer presence was throwing all of his gears out of whack. 

Even despite his misgivings, however, B-52 found that his lips seemed to be stuck in an upward curve even as his stomach did flips at the thought of actually going on a proper date with Brownie.

Oh god. A proper date.

B-52 hoped to the gods that he wouldn’t screw it up, and… frowning in thought, B-52 pondered over his feelings some more. He was rather new to all of this, all of these conflicting emotions that he couldn’t easily pry apart nor analyse. Was this because he wanted to make sure things turned out well? Was it - B-52’s cheeks burned - because he wanted to impress Brownie?

B-52 might have been onto some sort of eureka moment here if the sounds of timid knocking hadn’t interrupted his train of thought. B-52 looked up, and gulped before walking over to the door. Once there, he took a moment to steady himself, observing the earthy tones of the stripes and swirls of his wooden door before he answered it.

Outside was Brownie, ears folded behind him as he crouched, hunched over. Sky blue eyes swivelled from side to side as his ears twitched. Oh, and he was in the maid uniform. That too. Nothing wrong with that, apart from the fact that Brownie was honest to god _adorable_ and B-52 went ten full seconds before finally stammering out, “So, uh… h-hi.” The palm on his doorknob felt sweaty. B-52 awkwardly wiped his hand on the leg of his pants.

“Greetings.” A small flicker of a smile, and the butler’s eyes lit up, shining a brighter blue than before. “Shall… shall we go?”

“Of course,” B-52 found being pulled out of him before he had the chance to consult his brain. He took but a moment to close the door behind him before he was following behind Brownie.

Something seemed off, though. Something about Brownie. When B-52 focused his attention on the brunet, he realised that Brownie seemed to be skirting around corners and making an effort to be as quiet as absolutely possible. He seemed tense as well, clutching a silver gun B-52 hadn’t yet made his acquaintance to his chest, ears pressed against his skull as he scurried forward. What could be making him so stressed?

Was he supposed to be walking normally, or emulating Brownie’s behavior? It was getting a bit awkward just standing there and waiting for Brownie to scurry forward just to hide around another corner and repeat the whole process again. _Should I ask him? Should I not?_ B-52 wondered. Well, Brownie had said something about communication, right? B-52 tapped his cane. It would be fine, right?

“Are you okay?” B-52 whispered under his breath as he followed Brownie out the back entrance.

“Oh. I, uh…” Brownie immediately straightened up, giving himself a little shake. “I’m fine,” he answered quietly. “In fact, I was just wondering, well…”

B-52 found a gloved finger tapping the back of his mechanical hand. In slight confusion, he looked down, before looking back up at Brownie. “What does that mean?”

“I…” Brownie blinked, briefly glancing elsewhere before he seemingly forced himself to look B-52 in the eye. “I would like to… to hold hands, if you don’t mind,” Brownie said, words growing softer and softer. 

_I… holding hands?_ was B-52’s first nonsensical thought. Brownie had lifted his index finger from B-52’s hand and was now cradling his elbows. Black cat ears had pricked up from their previously folded position. B-52 felt his heart thundering in his chest. He swallowed the lump of coal that seemed to have materialised in his throat, wondering, _So this… is an actual date thing?_

They had done this before, but as B-52 stuck his hand out, fumbling a little before he finally managed to get his hand to cooperate with him and twine their fingers together, B-52 thought that he could never really tire of the little jolt of sensation it sent to his heart.

Brownie was looking down now, seemingly taken aback. Blue eyes darting up, his adorable fluffy cat ears twitched once as a slow smile worked its way across his lips. “Let’s go, then,” Brownie said as he tugged B-52 along to the practice range, gently but firmly, gun safely tucked in its holster. B-52 followed, stumbling a little, not knowing what to do with himself. If only there was some kind of dating instruction manual or something that B-52 could download. It would be supremely helpful right about now.

There were several pros and cons to the practice range, B-52 found. 

Firstly, the fact that no food soul was near the target range was a humongous plus in his opinion. There were other food souls, but they were too wrapped up in sparring each other to really pay any attention to them.

The first con came in the fact that Brownie had hastily released his hand as soon as they entered. B-52 couldn’t blame him, though. One look at Miso Soup (accounting for _several_ cons on his own) practicing healing on a rather heated Tempura gave B-52 all the answers he needed. Still though, as B-52 shoved his now free hand against his cane, he lamented the fact that cold metal was nowhere near as inviting as Brownie’s soft, warm hand.

“Tempura, dodge. Like this.”

B-52 froze at the same time Brownie did. As one, they turned to the source of the sound - a white-haired man baring his blade in an attacking stance. Seeming to sense their eyes on him, Sanma’s eyes briefly flicked over. Then, with a nod of understanding, he gestured to his partners. “That might be enough for today. Why don't we take a break?”

“Wooo!” Tempura cheered, grabbing Miso and hoisting him over his shoulder. The monk twitched in slight irritation, but his relief at being granted a break outweighed his humiliation.

Sanma glanced back, and this time, B-52 gave him a nod of acknowledgement. _Thank you for everything._

 _No problem,_ said the white-haired man’s mysterious smile as he exited the practice range along with his partners.

The door creaking shut seemed to jerk Brownie out of his petrified state. He breathed a sigh of relief, though his hand shaked a little as he muttered, “Um… so… shall we start?”

B-52 was currently recovering from the fresh wave of _We’re alone now_ as well. Turning to his partner, B-52 took a moment to appreciate Brownie, all of him - even without his cat ears, his otherwise stoic dark features held traces of bashfulness and sincerity. His brown hair was combed neatly as always, and the frilly headband and dress combo… well, Brownie was killing him, pretty much. Swallowing, B-52 said thickly, “I’ll follow your lead.”

It was a few steps towards the firing range. Though clad in an outfit better suited for restaurant purposes, B-52 took a moment to admire how Brownie readied his stance. His ears flicked back, his posture rigid and legs snapping into their familiar position. Brownie seemed to relax the instant he approached the firing range, all the tension dissipating from his body. The look in his eyes told anyone that dared to breathe not to mess with this gunslinger. Looking at it, B-52 felt several things strike him at once: a) that Brownie was capable as hell, b) that Brownie was his partner, c) and also his _boyfriend_. Pride and joy slowly swept him along in its currents, dwarfing him with the surprising size of it, and as B-52 watched, he couldn't help but puff up a bit. _We’re… really together now._

 _Bang, bang, bang._

Brownie lowered his gun, frowning as he checked his results. “That wasn't very good.”

“Yes, it was,” B-52 replied, slightly ashamed to admit that he had merely spent the time being mesmerised by his partner… existing. It seemed that Brownie himself was a major pro both in and of the practice range.

“A little off-center,” Brownie commented, partially to himself. B-52 took the opportunity to observe the look of concentration that graced his dark features. “I need to…” Crouching down again, Brownie fired his rifle once more. This time, B-52 caught a glimpse of what Brownie meant - two shots just barely edged away from the smallest red circle in the middle.

“You look really cool,” B-52 said without thinking, and then he instantly cut himself off, feeling a fierce blush creep up his collar. Well, crap, now Brownie was gonna know that he had been doing nothing but staring. Oh well, nothing wrong with that. Except now Brownie was staring at _him_ with lips slightly parted, the rifle looking like it was about to slip from his hands. B-52 coughed into his own hand, averting his gaze. “And it was really impressive, actually,” he added under his breath.

“I… that’s… w-well…” Brownie fumbled with the gun in his hands, his gloved fingers doing no favors to Operation Don't Drop the Gun. “Uh, I mean to say, well… the… barrel feels lighter,” he said in bits and pieces. One hand traced the ridges of the rifle as the other clutched around its handle.

“Oh? Let me see.”

“I, uh, well...”

B-52 hummed in barely disguised curiosity as he copied Brownie’s movements, running one finger over the metallic ridges. Being part metal himself, many had commented that it seemed he was able to more easily pick up on fixing and tinkering with such objects. His hand over the silver sheen of the metal, B-52 commented, “Yeah, it’s much lighter -”

B-52 jerked back as his fingertips brushed over something soft and smooth and definitely not metal. The blond scarcely dared to breath, eyes slowly, slowly venturing down to where he knew their hands were touching. It was then that he realised that his new position had taken him much closer to Brownie, who was standing there, staring up at him with ears pricked and irises that perfect colour of sky blue.

“I…” B-52 stammered.

“I,” Brownie echoed blankly.

The pounding of B-52’s heart and the adrenaline in his veins screamed at him to immediately drop everything and flee immediately, this was much, _much_ too embarrassing and Brownie was standing close and he was flustered, but for once… his legs seemed to have a mind of their own. Stepping forward and noticing that the brunet had lowered his gun so it was out of their way, B-52 closed in. 

An apology had been on the tip of his tongue, but the evening light streamed in, casting a fiery shadow over Brownie’s dark features, and the well-fitting, adorable maid’s dress and his cat ears… and then B-52 felt an urge tugging at the edges of his mind.

Something felt like it was burning up, smouldering at the edges. B-52 glanced around a bit, taking in details of the practice range like the specific shade of brown, as if delaying the moment would make it all the sweeter. Finally, gulping, B-52 mustered up the courage to say, “I… I saw… uh…” amidst the sweltering heat.

Brownie seemed to be suffering from a parched throat as well. Licking his lips, he croaked out, “Saw what?”

B-52 paused, gathering his wits about him even as anxiety tore at his nerves. “I… I saw Black Tea, w-well…” A sudden bolt of something made B-52’s hand, the real one, wander up to Brownie’s cheek again, the way he remembered he liked. Brownie didn't pull away, so B-52 took it as an invitation to keep going. Hopefully he wasn't misreading any signs, or Brownie didn't actually hate it and was just too polite, or… the blond took a deep breath. _No, see, his ears are still up. It’s okay. It’s fine._

Brownie himself seemed to be gripped with a painful sudden loss of words, so B-52 took it upon himself to seal the deal, no matter how awkward and fluttery it made him feel. He had started this, after all, so he should be the one to do so. With a deep breath, B-52 said, “I want to… kiss you on the cheek, if that’s okay.”

They were so close that B-52 could hear Brownie’s breath hitch. “Of… of course,” he said in a rather breathless manner, placing his gun back into his holster.

The quick action made B-52 hesitate. “Or we could carry on. Continue. Practicing,” B-52 added hastily, whipping his hand back down to his side. He kept it there jutting out at an awkward angle. What the hell was he supposed to do with himself in a situation like this?

“Well, I suppose.” Now, a glimmer of interest manifested in Brownie’s blue eyes. “But I think I’d much rather have what you’ve offered.”

It was almost infuriating the way Brownie could flip from his flustered state to something much more confident and teasing, but as B-52 had learned, humans and their emotions were often unpredictable. Maybe it was a quality he could stand to learn, himself. 

So, with that thought, he leant forward, ducking down a little to press his lips to Brownie’s cheek. He still didn't know what to do with his hands, so he kept them behind his back, but it didn’t detract from the current of sensation that swept up his spine.

Yet another pro to the practice range.

Stepping back, B-52 was almost in awe at the smile across Brownie’s face as he raised a hand to his face, gloved fingertips brushing across his cheek. Eyes darting back to B-52, Brownie said in a slightly dreamy tone, “I don’t know what brought that on, but… I liked it.”

“I just thought… that you were really cool.”

“Yes, you’ve said that,” Brownie teased affectionately, hooking his arms around B-52’s waist. B-52 was starting to wish that his legs were mechanical as well, since Brownie was turning them to jelly.

B-52 flicked a tongue over his dry lips. “Handsome,” he added, as if he was just throwing out random adjectives to describe attractiveness and seeing what stuck. It seemed to be working, however, and B-52 allowed himself a mental cheer when he saw Brownie duck his head, the fluffy tip of one ear twitching.

“I’d like to add this to the list of acceptable kisses, if you’d be so willing,” Brownie said shyly.

“There’s a… a list?”

“Yes. The one we sort of came up with together last time?”

“No, but… b-but, I mean,” B-52 stammered. “A list for… kissing?”

A silence fell over the two as Brownie blinked in shock, before nervously, he began brushing his hands over his rifle again. “You know, the way you said it seems kind of like you want something more than a kiss on the cheek.”

“No no no no no!” B-52 gestured frantically. “I mean… I’d really hate to force anything, or anything… like, at all, really!”

“I see.” Brownie clicked his tongue. “...but would you be interested?”

B-52 clamped his mouth shut, thoughts whirling through his processors like fruit in a blender. An actual kiss on their actual date… sounded good, really really good. And of course, it wasn't as if he didn't want one - B-52 often thought about how soft Brownie’s lips would feel, what he’d taste like. So, sucking in a deep breath, B-52 nodded yes.

“Oh.” Although Brownie’s actual facial expression remained neutral, his ears pricked up, standing at attention. “If you’d like to… uh, well, actually go for one on the lips, I suppose, i-is what I’m saying,” Brownie said, eyes insistently glued to his weapon, “I… I well, wouldn’t mind that at all. Yes. I. Really.” Brownie coughed. “I’ve… thought about this. As well.”

If B-52 had cat ears himself, he’d be ashamed at the sheer speed at which they pricked up in interest. Fortunately, he did not, and this meant that he was able to look like a total dunce in only a plethora of other ways. Mouth gaping and hands gripping at nothing in shock, B-52 hurriedly glanced around the practice range, afraid that Miso and company had come back and had caught the last traces of Brownie’s sentence. When his search turned out negative, even from his scanner, B-52 sighed in relief.

“You sure?” B-52 whispered, pulling Brownie close to him.

“I’m sure,” Brownie replied. He reciprocated the gesture, slinking his arms around B-52 again. It was really… amazing, how naturally they seemed to fit together, drawn to each other.

“I was afraid to broach the subject because of you, actually.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” Brownie hesitated. “I was afraid I would be taking things too far, too fast.”

“Me too,” B-52 admitted. “But if I want to, and you do too, it should be fine, right?”

“...well, it’s been more than a week, and we’ve been through a lot together. I suppose… if you want to, it should be fine.” Brownie flashed B-52 a brief smile. “We food souls have a rather strange concept of time, after all.”

“Ah. Y-yeah.” Suddenly gripped with a sinking feeling of panic and loss, B-52 asked, “So… how do we do this?”

“Well…” Brownie tilted his head back. For a second, B-52 forgot to breathe. Wondering what his partner was thinking, he searched Brownie’s intense gaze. All this accomplished was a sense of excitement heightening the longer the moment dragged on, as well as the acute feeling of nervousness. Brownie was warm, and he found himself really enjoying their close proximity. A tender brush along B-52’s cheek had him unconsciously leaning into the touch. “Don’t be afraid,” Brownie murmured under his breath, large blue eyes half-lidded, giving Brownie a soft, serene glow. 

Even with his best attempts to maintain his head on his shoulders, B-52 felt his engines thrum with nervous excitement, a fiery blush creeping up his face. “Y-yeah.” Brownie was leaning forward now, intensifying the magnetic pull between the pair. 

Throwing all caution to the wind, running along with the sheer impulse of his instincts, B-52 closed the last few inches between them… and then his eyes shot open as their noses crashed into each other.

Brownie backed away, uttering a soft groan as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. B-52 did the same, both hands over his face as his entire being burned with much more than the word shyness could represent at the time being.

“Brownie, god, I’m so, so sorry.” The depths of his embarrassment reached deeper than the lake in Nevras. B-52 stepped forward, one hand reaching forward before he dropped both his arms and went back to staring at his shoes, where he could happily (miserably) give himself a royal thrashing.

“I’m -” Brownie winced, “- okay. You?”

“I’m okay,” B-52 replied in an incredibly small voice. One eye darting around the rest of the thankfully empty practice range, sheer _shame_ held B-52 prisoner in its clutches. Hugging his elbows, B-52 stubbornly refused to make eye contact with a no doubt rather disappointed Brownie.

 _How could I just screw it up like that?_ B-52 chastised himself repeatedly.

The butler seemed to sense B-52’s inner turmoil. He tactfully did not mention anything that just happened, which B-52 was incredibly grateful for, since it made it far easier to banish all prior events to the furthest, darkest corner of his mind. Then, B-52 blinked in surprise as Brownie’s hand found his shoulder.

“Let’s relax a bit. Why don’t we go somewhere together?” Brownie asked. The gentle, inviting smile on his face didn’t seem like it intended to make a laughingstock out of poor B-52, and he was infinitesimally thankful. Sudden affection washed over him, mixing together with the current anxiety and shame he was experiencing for a full course meal that was _not_ at all palatable. 

_Emotions are hard,_ B-52 concluded, face still a flaming red. Ducking his head down, he nodded once, twice, too embarrassed to even hear himself speak right now. Brownie’s smile stretched wider. Helping B-52 to his feet properly, Brownie proposed, “I heard there’s a good café in town. Let’s go try some of their dishes.”

B-52 trailed along beside Brownie. Trying not to seem cold, he nodded and gave some vague mutters of affirmation. At some point, Brownie slipped his hand in his again, granting B-52 just a little bit of relief from the scaldingly spicy combo of emotions on top of his ruined dessert.

Maybe he should have just listened to himself when he thought he wasn’t ready. Still, though, as much as B-52 huddled in on himself and tried to disappear, having a bite together with Brownie sounded… greatly appetising.


	39. Shifting Gears

“It’s not quite as renowned as Café Satan once was, but I’ve heard good things all the same.”

B-52 mumbled quietly in reply, hands shoved in his pockets. Brownie was delighted to see that he at least seemed capable of raising his head now… though that might just be because he needed to watch which way he was going. Still. That was good improvement, right?

This brought his thoughts back to the event that sparked the change in B-52’s behaviour. Brownie resisted the urge to trail a hand over his lips. Their attempt at a first kiss had failed, regrettably, but Brownie couldn’t help but flush at the thought of B-52’s proximity to him in that moment. Shaking his head to clear it, Brownie spotted the vaguely familiar lit-up sign of the Urban Grind Coffee Bar. Brownie turned to B-52, asking, “Shall we go in?”

“Y-yeah.” B-52 ducked his head down, eyebrows slanted down and red still staining his pale cheeks.

Brownie gave him a look of concern before he pushed the rustic wooden door of the café open.

Fresh scents and cozy murmurs invited them in before a waitress did. A jovial woman stepped forward to greet them, clad in a smart black vest and white undershirt. Her knee-length pencil skirt swished with her movements. Brandishing a notebook and a pen, she said with a smile, “Welcome. Table for two?”

Brownie nodded, about to reply when he was cut off by, “Have a seat, miss.” The waitress gestured towards an empty table nearest to the wall.

Casting a look downwards, Brownie realised that he was still wearing the maid uniform. Suddenly, Brownie felt very small. The red tie and collar around his neck felt just a little too tight. 

Maybe B-52 had room in his shame shelter for two. 

Brownie simply followed the young woman, wanting to avoid causing a scene. The waitress trotted off to serve another table as soon as the pair sat down.

Brownie heard a chuckle. When he looked, B-52 had a hand clasped over his mouth. “What would you like to order, _miss_?” he asked, barely disguised laughter in his voice.

Brownie gave B-52 an uneasy smile in reply. Being with B-52 had almost made him forget that he was wearing such a thing, but now the sudden reminder was like a huge slap in the face. Brownie felt more than just a little awkward. And was - Brownie shifted in his seat - B-52 laughing at him now? Somehow, his gut twisted at the thought. _No, don’t assume the worst just yet. It will be okay. He’s alright with it, remember? He said as such._

Still, though, the sight of B-52 cheering up from his rather embarrassing failure was good progress in Brownie’s eyes. As such, Brownie straightened up, injecting confidence into his veins. “What would you like?” he asked B-52, opening up the rather large plastic menu.

“Whatever the lady wants,” B-52 replied with a smirk.

Brownie managed to bark out one short, sharp laugh before he raised the menu up, obscuring his face with it.

 _It’ll be okay it’ll be okay it’ll be okay,_ he chanted in his mind. B-52 certainly was not doing it out of malicious intent. B-52 was no Chocolate. B-52, however, wasn’t known for his social skills. In fact, he probably just thought that he was simply being playful. It didn’t matter. Probably. Brownie didn’t wish to ruin his now cheerful mood, so he set about glancing at the list of items on the menu.

One item caught his eye first: _Brownie_. It was strange at first, when he had barely any experience in this world, but now Brownie was used to seeing his name appear in many restaurants. Glancing at the clock mounted high on the wall, Brownie decided that light refreshments would do. It was half past six, and they still had dinner later on.

Eyes scanning the rest of the menu, he couldn’t help but be amused at the fact that this place served B-52 cocktails as well. _Imagine that,_ he mused to himself with a chuckle. _Ordering a brownie and a cocktail at the same time. The staff will think we’ve gone mad!_

“Are you alright with the choice of cake?” Brownie asked, lowering his menu to check on B-52. Cake seemed like a pretty safe choice for a two people to one meal ratio sort of thing. No messy spills, no sauce getting everywhere. Just a fork. Surely that’d go fine.

Looking up from his own menu, B-52 nodded. “Okay. So I’ll get chocolate.” B-52’s face formed a deep grimace as he uttered the word, as if unable to reconcile the flavour with the extremely annoying dark-haired man. “You?”

So B-52 hadn’t gotten his hint after all. “Actually, I was kind of hoping we could share.” Brownie coughed, feeling his ears droop in slight disappointment. 

“...oh. Oh.” B-52’s one eye went wide. Awkwardly rubbing his hands together, he ducked his head to the side. “Uh. Sorry, this is a date thing, right?”

“Yes, but I mean - it’s okay.” Brownie jerked back up. “You’ll figure things out someday.” 

Brownie’s memory drifted back to the list he had made that night, that night that seemed like such a long time ago. Chocolate had told him to account for several different variables. It seemed that B-52’s lack of romantic knowledge was a sudden, yet not completely unexpected discovery. This wasn't a problem, or so Brownie hoped. He could simply add it to the list of things of note. They could work around it.

“I hope so,” B-52 muttered, the bashfulness back again and extremely evident on his features. The ambient light only brought more attention to his highlighted blush. “I’m… still really sorry for what happened just now, you know.”

“Think nothing of it.” Brownie gave B-52 a look of reassurance. “I’m fine, really.”

B-52’s posture was a little hunched forward, awkward grin not quite reaching up to his eyes. “I just... feel bad for ruining… our first kiss.” His voice crept lower and lower with every syllable, eyes darting around the walls of the café. _And I can't help but think I’m ruining this too,_ B-52 left unsaid.

Brownie gave a soft murmur of sympathy, reaching across the table… and then promptly realising that B-52’s hand was not on the table. Leaving his arm on the surface and hoping that B-52 didn’t notice his misstep, Brownie said, “Then how about letting this… sort of be our make up session?”

“...is that a thing too?”

“I don't think so?” Brownie stated, though it came out as more of a question. All of a sudden, the uncertainty that came with the new territories of his new, redefined relationship with B-52 washed up on the shore. “Nevermind. We can just… kind of make it our own thing?”

B-52 hummed in thought, or perhaps it was simply the whirrs of his engine as he processed this. “If that’s what you think, then okay.”

Ignoring his pleased flush, Brownie nodded, pointing toward the menu. “I’d be alright with getting chocolate cake, if you wanted it.”

“Are you sure?” B-52 worried his lip between his teeth, looking uncharacteristically nervous. Brownie almost wanted to cross the table and place his arms around him to comfort him. Before he could do so, B-52 added, “You’re always doing things for us, Brownie. For once… let me?” 

It did not make any logical sense for a one-eyed warrior to be able to send anyone a look so pleading, so earnest, so… absolutely adorable. With that pout and the glistening of his one exposed blue eye, Brownie found himself tugging at the tie around his neck. “S-sure,” he managed to say, any words more eloquent than that suddenly escaping his mental capacity.

“Brownie, you like plain flavours, right?” B-52 asked, looking through the entire menu with alarming speed. Then again, that was to be expected; after all, he had a built-in scanner to aid him.

With saliva building up in his throat, Brownie nodded, seemingly mute.

“What about vanilla, then?” B-52 cocked his head. “Do you like that?”

“I don’t eat light snacks very often,” Brownie said with a thoughtful look, trying to recall the last time he ate cake. Probably a year ago? “I think I might. What about you?”

“I’ll eat it if you like it,” B-52 answered in complete seriousness, the intensity of his gaze sending a prickle of something straight to Brownie’s heart. Coughing to hide his embarrassment, he waved a staff member over to order.

The click-clack of black heels signalled the waitress’s return. “Ready to order, miss?”

Brownie wore the perfect expression of complete stoicness, even though he was dying inside. “Uh… yes, I’d like… one vanilla cake and two glasses of water,” he recited, squirming in his seat as the waitress blinked and looked at him in confusion.

“Of course,” she said after snapping out of her stupor.

“Thank you,” Brownie said to the empty air.

Sighing, Brownie flicked one ear unconsciously. Glancing back fo B-52, Brownie felt ice grip him in its clutches as soon as he spotted the grin B-52 was sporting.

“Are you enjoying my company, miss?” B-52 asked coolly, or at least pretending to be a stereotypical ‘cool’ teenager they often saw on the streets. Twirling the edges of his blond hair with a finger, he didn’t seem to notice the air escaping from the deflated balloon that vaguely resembled Brownie.

Cat ears flattening against his skull, Brownie pleaded, “Please stop doing that.”

Finally, finally, B-52 seemed to sense his jokes weren’t going over too well. Straightening up, the fake haughty smirk dissolved into a look of concern. “Oh. Why?”

“I… I just…” Tension prickled up his spine as Brownie’s subconscious once again brought attention to the fact that he was wearing a _maid dress_ out in _public_. Suddenly, Brownie couldn’t help but imagine everyone else’s eyes on him, the waitress, the other customers, and worst of all, B-52 - all piercing into his skin like an arrow fired from a bow. Drawing his hands to himself, he admitted in a quiet voice, “I’m still… a little uncomfortable.”

B-52 didn’t reply, though his lips were slightly parted, forming the shape of an ‘o’. Seconds passed, and Brownie rubbed his arm. Minutes passed, and Brownie dropped his gaze, staring instead at the ruffles of his skirt. He moved his left leg, feeling the fabric rustle against his bare thigh. The gray thigh-highs still needed getting used to, not least the slit in the middle that exposed his knee for whatever reason.

Brownie glanced up as the clink of ceramic against marble caught his attention. “Here’s your order,” said the waitress. She gave Brownie a second glance, as if in apology, before she clicked her pen and walked away.

“...I’m sorry,” Brownie heard his partner mumble. B-52 had red dusting his cheeks as he blinked just a little too hard for it to be natural. Certain that his fists were clenching underneath the table, Brownie gave B-52 a smile… though it came out a little strained.

“It’s alright,” he said, hoping his words came out reassuring. “Would you like to have the first bite? It smells delicious.”

B-52 didn’t reply for a few moments; then slowly, he nodded, even as he asked, “...are you sure you don’t want to go first?”

Brownie somehow hadn’t been expecting this. Perhaps his life as a butler in servitude had done _him_ a few disservices. But B-52 didn’t seem like he was about to accept no for an answer. So, with trepidation setting his heart aflame, he raised a spoon, leaning forward and taking a bite.

It tasted sweet, but what was even sweeter was the smile on B-52’s face as he watched him.

.

Soft footsteps signalled his approach moments before B-52 spoke, “I feel... bad. About what I did to you earlier.” 

Brownie was sitting on the ledge where he had found Foie sitting many nights prior. Jumping a little at B-52’s approach, he whirled around to face him. His cat ears twitched under the rectangular hat back on his head.

“But if I’m being honest,” B-52 said as he took a seat beside Brownie, “I don’t really understand why, and I’d like to.”

Brownie could sense that he had spent probably the better part of the last hour, after their little outing and before dinner, pacing around and thinking of what to say to him. It warmed his heart, the care with which B-52 was choosing his words. In it, he could sense B-52’s sincerity, his desire to see this relationship work out as much as Brownie did.

“Sure.” Brownie flashed B-52 a brief smile to let him know he wasn’t angry, and the constant movement of his hands rubbing together ceased for a moment. “What are you confused about?”

“I…” Fumbling with the folds of his clothes, B-52 replied, “I didn't actually think you’d still be uncomfortable because I couldn't imagine why you'd be. I said you looked cute, right?”

Brownie brushed away the surprising wave of disappointment as Brownie answered, “It's more about me than you, actually. I don’t mean anything by this comment, but… telling me something a few times isn't going to make my feelings go away, you know? I think this is something that I’ll have to overcome on my own.”

Brownie kept his eyes on B-52’s face, searching for any sign of hurt. Instead, he got a thoughtful frown as B-52 tapped a hand to his chin. “Oh. I think I get it. So kinda like me and… and how I’m always whining about not being a real human?”

“ _Whining_?” Overcome with sudden impulse, Brownie realised he was gripping B-52’s shoulders only when the other gave him a confused look.

“You… you…” _Don’t get flustered. Don’t get flustered. It’s just him. It’s okay._ Taking a breath to steady himself, Brownie looked into B-52’s eye as he said, “You’re not whining.”

“But I am, though.” B-52 sighed, eye flicking downwards to stare at the ground or something. “Sometimes… I feel like I’m bothering you.”

“You’ll never bother me,” Brownie replied firmly. “If you need to talk, I’m here.”

“Right, right… this is supposed to be about you, though.” Despite that, Brownie didn’t miss the slight upwards twitch of his lips. “So… I’m right that your feelings are kind of the way mine are?”

“I… guess so.” Admittedly, Brownie felt just a tiny bit silly now. B-52 comparing his lifelong trauma to his insecurities made him realise how trivial his problems were in comparison. With that thought, he added, “It’s vastly different in scale, however.”

“But the idea’s kinda the same. Uh. Right?”

“...I… suppose?”

“Hm.” B-52 pursed his lips in thought, and Brownie tried not to look too closely. Once again, he realised how close they were. Flushing, he released his partner from his tight hold. B-52 didn’t seem to notice Brownie’s sudden tenseness, instead just saying, “Okay. Can I make it up to you?”

It took a moment for the words to input themselves into Brownie’s brain.

“Y-you don’t have to,” Brownie stammered out, fiddling with the apron around his waist. “It’s al-alright. Really!”

“Brownie, but I… kind of honestly…” B-52 wrung his hands together. “...want to.”

All air seemed to be wrung out of his lungs. Honestly, Brownie had been rather hesitant, but now as he was looking at B-52… his mind was becoming a little blurry. Why hadn’t they attempted this sooner? It seemed like a marvellous idea right about now. Looking at his partner in interest, Brownie finally gathered it together enough to say, “...in that case, in what way would you like to do so?”

“I was thinking… wondering…” B-52 looked almost… demure in a way, with the way he was placing his hands together, neatly folded in his lap. “...if you’d like to try kissing again. If you did. Uh. I’d be willing to give you one.”

Brownie couldn't seem to locate his soul at the moment. Perhaps it had ascended into heaven. Heart in his mouth, Brownie barked out a weak laugh. “I see. Is this your way of apologising?”

“It could be. If you wanted.” B-52 gave an uncertain chuckle in reply. “I just… you said we could make it our own thing. And… maybe this can be my first contribution?” He deflated under Brownie’s gaze, fiddling with his gloves nervously. Brownie continued watching, mesmerised as B-52’s red tongue flicked around his dry lips.

Actually, B-52’s proposal did not sound like a bad idea at all. In fact, it was the absolute furthest thing from a bad idea, but… Brownie leaned away just a bit to take in the noise and ambient light emitting from the restaurant. Many food souls were still eating, and Brownie still hadn’t been tasked to do anything for a while, so…

“Come.” 

B-52 jerked back as Brownie took his hand, and then compensated far too well by setting his back rimrod straight after he realised what he had done. “Uh… yes. I mean. G-go where?” he stammered out, other hand reaching for the familiar weight of his weapon that wasn’t there.

With a smile (that Brownie certainly hoped was inviting), Brownie beckoned him to stand up. “I have a lot of time on my hands. If you want, I can make a short detour to your room.”

Brownie loved the glorious moment where understanding dawned on B-52’s face. Biting his bottom lip, he simply nodded, following Brownie’s lead.


	40. Practice Sessions and Weapon Upgrades

Minutes just before dinnertime ended, B-52 made his way back to his dorm with Brownie’s hand in his.

B-52 was very glad right around this moment that he had worn gloves, because he was certain that his cold, clammy, pale hand would not be a pleasant hand-holding experience. Still, though, there wasn't much he could do to cancel out the trembling of his arm as Brownie slipped closer to him.

 _I’m only human,_ B-52 thought in long-suffering silence, before he realised what exactly he had thought… and the echo was a much more joyful one.

 _Feel more… feelings of being alive._ That was what he had wanted, right? Now that he was experiencing all of these new emotions, some unpalatable, some delicious, B-52 felt like he had taken a step closer to understanding humans, and himself. Brownie made him feel so happy, so free, that B-52 almost felt afraid. What if something came swooping in at the last moment and ruined everything? Well. B-52 cringed as his thoughts crossed the other side of the fence. He _could_ stand to learn a thing or two about dating etiquette. 

How could he have messed so many things up just like that? It was lucky that Brownie was such a kind, patient, understanding partner. Otherwise B-52 would probably have ruined his chances before their relationship even really went anywhere. And now, he was allowing B-52 to make things up to him… and B-52’s heart promptly started flopping around like a fish on land.

This coincided with Brownie’s quiet murmur, and the brush along his fingers that left a tingle. “We’re here.”

B-52 looked up to stupidly confirm what _here_ meant - for some reason he had thought it had meant something about their current state of relationship. For some reason, the large mahogany door looming over his head sent a wave of anxiety crashing through him again. As he turned the doorknob, B-52 tried to push away all thoughts of his failure earlier in the evening.

Except he was failing to do that as well.

Brownie stepped in, clicking the door shut behind him. A glance at Brownie told B-52 that he was feeling nervous as well, from the way he was wiping his hands on his apron and his adorable kitty ears were flicking about. B-52 would probably never tire of the way Brownie’s ears worked, but it was the sight of a small smile working its way across his lips that incited a flicker of… of affection in B-52. The blond stepped forward, hesitant, unsure how to express it, even though he’d basically invited Brownie here to cuddle, talk, and do - B-52 felt his cheeks flush - _other stuff_.

B-52 didn't know what to do, and his nervousness emerged as caution. “You’re… okay?” the blond asked as he drew near, one hand lifting up as if wanting to touch Brownie’s ears again. Still, B-52 hesitated at the last second. Something was holding him back. But what?

Brownie released a long pent-up breath. “I will be, once you deliver what you promised,” he teased in a warm, gentle tone.

B-52’s mouth went dry, the reality of the situation sinking in sent his heart hammering relentlessly in his chest. At this inopportune moment, the shadows of failure loomed at the edges of his unconscious thought until B-52 was forced to turn his lights toward them… and then of course all B-52 could think of was the failed experiment earlier this evening, playing again and again on a loop, the images in his brain sending fire straight across his face for entirely different reasons.

Suddenly his tongue way too big and floppy in his mouth, B-52 uttered, “Uh… I-I…”, all while trying to force down the ridiculous blush he knew was creeping up his neck. Finding himself very interested in looking anywhere but Brownie, B-52 stared at a stubborn stain at the far corner of his room. Darkness was setting in, turning the browns to black.

“Right! I… u-uh, gotta go turn on the lights!”

Seizing his opportunity of escape, B-52 scurried off in the direction of his lamp before he stopped a bit, pondered what he was doing, and now too afraid to gauge Brownie’s reaction, finished the task he had suddenly started in the middle of this… kissing thing they had been supposed to be doing. 

Anticlimactically, he lit the room lamp. Embers flared to life, swamping his room in an orange glow.

 _Fuck,_ B-52 cursed in his mind as he tried to analyse just what in the fuck had made him turn tail and _bolt_ just like that. He glared with his one exposed eye at the flickering embers of the lamp, as if it was to blame for his complete lack of ability to function like a normal decent person. _Dumbass, what are you doing?_ he scolded while curling in on himself.

He felt Brownie’s presence behind him a moment before a soft call of “B-52?” brought back his attention to the more important matter at hand. Flustered, B-52 coughed, whirling around abruptly and forcing an unnatural grin onto his face. 

“Y-yeah?” he asked, a trickle of sweat running down his temple.

Brownie, god bless him, had a look of disappointment in his eyes, although with butler manners back on track, he simply asked, “Are you alright? Would you like to reconsider?” Hand hovering over B-52’s shoulder, Brownie seemed hesitant to make contact right now.

“Wha? No - I -” _Reconsidering_ was the furthest thing on B-52’s mind right now. In fact, maybe… he wanted to kiss Brownie a little too much. He had to make it right this time. Give Brownie what he truly deserved for being such a wonderful partner. B-52 clamped his mouth shut, knowing that it technically wasn't helping quell his nervousness, but it did the trick of shutting himself up mentally. “Just setting the mood,” he said with a weak chuckle.

Brownie didn't seem to know how to react. “It is… rather logical to do so,” he said. The smile was gone now, but there was still overall softness in his dark features, so B-52 assumed he hadn't messed up too much yet.

“I’m sorry,” B-52 admitted, left hand rubbing along his right arm. “I’m… very… nervous. That’s all.”

“Would you like to -”

“No!” B-52 snapped. Eyes widening when he realised what he’d done, he growled in frustration before he sighed, releasing tension from his body. Reaching for Brownie’s shoulders, he hung his head. “I’m really sorry. I just… I really want to do this. I want to do this with you, Brownie. I’m just… just…”

All was silent after B-52’s confession, making his heart race for fear that he’d really screwed it up this time, when he heard, “You don't need to get things perfect the first time, B-52. It’s okay.” Soft, soothing words cascaded over B-52 like a waterfall. “I apologize if I pressured you,” Brownie added a moment later.

A flush, and B-52 shrinking down. “No, I - it’s okay, I just suddenly thought that I really… want to get it right this time.”

“You will,” Brownie promised. Where his eyes were angled signaled his intention, and B-52 himself closed his eyes in anticipation. A second later Brownie’s lips met his cheek, making the skin tingle and burn and B-52 shiver under the touch. It was as if it was magic, all his insecurities melting away momentarily. At once, B-52 released a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding. Opening his eyes slowly, all he could see was Brownie.

“See?” The brunet had a smile back on his face, cat ears pricked up and alert, hair slightly mussed and tips falling into his eyes; B-52 had never seen anyone more beautiful. And as Brownie cautiously, then firmly pulled B-52 into his embrace, the blond felt himself relax… at least until he realised how close their faces were, upon which his anxiety spiked once more.

Brownie sensed the exact moment B-52’s blue eye flew open in panic. Tugging on his shoulder gently, Brownie continued, “It’ll be okay, because I don't know how to do any of this either. You’re doing well, I’d say.”

Swallowing down the sudden lump in his throat, (a lot of things were sudden, B-52 found, sudden and new) B-52 croaked out, “I… thank you.”

“N-no problem.” Anxiety seemed to have caught up with him as well, but if Brownie was feeling anything like what B-52 was feeling, like earth-shattering happiness at their close proximity, the fact that Brownie was allowing him to do this to him in the first place, a high privilege, an honor… it sure did reflect in the way his right ear flicked, beckoning B-52 closer even as Brownie gulped down air. There was that pull again, something akin to a burn, or a magnetic feeling between the pair.

“Do you… want to?” Brownie asked slowly, and B-52 probably should have replied with _yes_ like any sane individual would have, but B-52 wasn't thinking.

“I really like you, Brownie.”

B-52 was close enough to hear Brownie’s breath hitch, and hear the quiet, affectionate reply of, “And I, too.” The shy smile was back in place again, in B-52’s opinion, where it always ought to be. B-52’s eyes ran over Brownie’s dark hair, piercing blue eyes, his slightly crumpled smart butler outfit, feeling a wave of affection for his boyfriend. Brownie’s other hand trailed up B-52’s side, making him shudder at the sensation. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Despite himself, B-52 still felt a current of doubt run through him. Leaning his head forward, hoping to analyse what he did wrong, B-52 frowned. His scanner certainly wasn't any help here, so he was on his own. Squinting his eyes to take in every delicate, handsome feature of Brownie’s face, he muttered, “It didn't work well the last time, so… I… hm…”

Brownie sucked in a breath. “If I may?”

“Oh. S-sure.”

Slowly, gingerly, blue eyes meeting B-52’s as a gloved hand slowly made its way upwards, above B-52’s side, then his shoulder, then his cheek. Every single little caress of his finger made B-52 appreciate Brownie more and more, leaning into the other male’s touch. Keeping his eyes on B-52’s the whole time for any sign of protest, Brownie guided B-52’s head to the right. Tilting his own head to the left, Brownie murmured, “I think this is it.”

B-52’s mouth was dry. Licking his lips to wet it (because dry lips weren't ideal for this sort of situation, right?), he could only nod as a confirmation. Brownie paused, eyes searching his for one last time before he finally leaned forward, closing the last inch between them and pressing his lips to his.

Brownie’s lips were soft, warm, and delicious.

Tension dissipated from his body as B-52 leaned in, seeking more of Brownie’s inviting heat, and that soft touch… B-52 found that closing his eyes came naturally, like a feline to warmth. It felt warm, pleasant, and all the things B-52 had imagined kissing Brownie would have been like. There was a feeling like something blooming in B-52’s chest, something that made him want to chase the kiss more and more. _Still, though, this is the first time we’ve done this, and maybe I should stop and maybe I should keep it brief or -_

All of this crossed B-52’s mind in a couple of seconds. Brownie was the one to break off the kiss, and B-52 briefly mourned the loss. Panting slightly and cheeks flushed dark, Brownie asked, “You… well… how was it?”

Licking his lips and finding the residual taste of Brownie on his lips, B-52 realised he had a ridiculous smile on his face. All he could focus on right now was how incredibly perfect, kind, and patient Brownie was, and how grateful B-52 was to him, from the first instance in the catacombs all the way to this new experience together.

Wait, Brownie had asked him something. 

Breaking out of the spell Brownie had put him under, B-52 took a deep breath to regain some of his lost footing. “I’m… sorry for seizing up,” he said, bashfulness settling in once again.

“That wasn't my question.” Brownie’s smile was gentle, kind, but the next sentence had a teasing lilt to it. “Though I can guess what the answer could be.”

“Yeah.” The smile turned awkward, and B-52 ducked his head out of embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don't know why I keep panicking. I’m just… kind of new to it.”

“It’s alright. So am I.” The brunet studied B-52 with an intense gaze. Emboldened by the moment, Brownie offered, “Why don't we keep practicing, then?”

“Practicing? You mean… in kissing?”

“Yes.” Blue eyes glimmered in the soft orange light. “It’s the only way we can get better, after all. Do you accept?” 

Rendered speechless, B-52 could once again only nod to Brownie’s proposal.

With a smile, Brownie said, “We’ve just been standing here in the middle of your room. I… would you…” Coughing and glancing in the direction of the bed, Brownie then looked away, though not before B-52 got the basic gist of his question and blushed darker.

“Brownie, you can't be serious!”

“Hey, hey, B-52.” Brownie gently squeezed his shoulder. “I meant just to sit down. I’m barely ready for… that, myself.”

“Oh - I… well if it’s just that t-then it’s fine,” B-52 stammered out, crossing his arms and staring at the floor, feeling extremely repentant for his loud outburst. His lackluster ability to read social cues really needed to stop. Feeling a tug on his hand, B-52 meekly allowed his partner to guide him there.

Brownie reached first, but polite as ever, he waited for B-52 to sit down and pat the empty space next to him before joining him. B-52 glanced at Brownie, up at his adorable cat ears, then at the rumpled apron of his butler uniform. So distracted was he with this activity that he almost didn't catch Brownie’s quiet murmur. “What?” B-52 asked, trying to readjust his focus.

Brownie gave a small chuckle. “I-it’s nothing really, I was just suddenly thinking to myself, that you were really… you _are_ really… really cute, sometimes.”

B-52 instantly averted his gaze at the words, leading to a slightly louder chuckle in response. He felt Brownie move in closer, and resisted the sudden urge to move away - _what are you doing B-52 you WANT this_ \- as Brownie approached, B-52 felt warm fingers find his and lace them together. When he looked back up, he felt a breath catch in his chest at the warm beam of sunshine painted all over Brownie’s normally stoic face.

B-52 had two options. He could either hesitate, and continue not to give in, or whatever it was he was currently doing, or…

Or he could kiss Brownie again.

This determination relit the fire in his gaze. As B-52 leaned forward, he remembered Brownie’s advice - _tilt your head_ \- and did so accordingly, successfully evading the previous pitfall of failure and capturing Brownie’s lips in a kiss. He, however, had not been expecting a ‘mmph’ of surprise from his partner, and with equal parts alarm and disappointment, B-52 drew back immediately. “Are you okay?”

“Yes I’m… I’m fine.” Brownie seemed to almost be in wonder as he touched a gloved hand to his lips. “I just… wasn't expecting it, is all? But… but keep going, really. I don't mind. At all,” he finished with a nod.

B-52 stared for a second longer before something came over him, and then he couldn't resist moving even closer to Brownie, so close that he could feel his partner’s heat from their close proximity, but still not quite touching. With a smirk working its way across B-52’s lips, he replied, “In that case, I guess I will.”

.

Maybe it was sometime around the fourth kiss they shared, where B-52 had relaxed and loosened his grip on Brownie’s hand; or maybe the seventh, where Brownie had brushed away B-52’s bangs so gently; or maybe the tenth, which was longer, slower, and deeper than the others. In any case, B-52 decided: he liked kissing Brownie. He liked it a lot, and the magnetic pull between them had translated into a full-out burning desire for more somewhere along the road.

B-52 hadn't ever felt something like this before, hadn't even thought he could feel something like this before. Brownie was throwing all of his sensors out of whack, and he could barely focus on anything that wasn't the other male’s breath on his lips. Kissing him harder, B-52 found himself lost in the sensation, in the touches, in the closeness together.

In the heat of the moment, B-52 wrapped his arms around Brownie’s neck, and the butler hadn't resisted. Instead, Brownie’s hands drifted to B-52’s waist, circling his arms around his waist in turn. Perhaps in revenge, Brownie pulled him closer. B-52 let out a gasp, chest heaving despite food souls having no real need for oxygen. Having long since given up any resistance, B-52 went with the flow, pushing against Brownie, not even breaking apart as he fell forward -

_Thump._

B-52 had to stop then, regretfully. Panting hard out of sheer instinct, the blond blinked a few times to tune himself back into reality, noticing the butler under him was doing the same.

The… the butler _under_ him?

Realisation hit them both at the same time. For a moment, both partners froze, speechless, the heat from the flames dying down as they just stared and stared and realised what a compromising situation this was - and then B-52 hastily rolled off Brownie, stammering out, “A-anyway, it’s l-late, so!”

“Y-yes, indeed,” Brownie replied, blue eyes wide and cat ears slicked back against his skull. He swung his legs off the bed, lips pressed together in a thin line as he scrambled to make himself look presentable, tidying his clothes and hair and picking his hat off the ground.

“Y-yeah!” B-52 said unnecessarily loudly. He winced, and his next sentence was a bit too quiet instead: “I’m… I. I… Brownie, I liked it.”

The butler’s face was still flushed dark with embarrassment, but his feline ears pricked up. For a second, he didn't speak before shame melted into bashfulness. “Me… too,” he replied, regaining enough confidence to look at B-52.

“Yes.” B-52 coughed awkwardly. 

“Right.”

“Great.”

“Indeed.”

There was silence once more, before Brownie averted his gaze once again. Nodding at B-52, Brownie said in a small voice, “I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Same. Yeah.” Laughing awkwardly, B-52 held up a hand. “Yeah.”

He continued holding it up like a total idiot as Brownie nodded, bid farewell, and scurried out with his tail between his legs, after which B-52 proceeded to _still_ stay there and therefore succeeding in being a total idiot for life. After what felt like eternity, B-52 groaned, collapsing back into bed and hiding himself under the covers, pressing the pillow against the back of his head. The mattress pressed up uncomfortably against his nose.

 _Why did I do that why did I do that why did I do that,_ he chanted on repeat in his mind as he punched the white fluffy pillow.

Still, though, as his chest burned and his spine tingled and his cheeks still held that rosy glow - B-52 couldn't completely deny… enjoying this particular training session.


	41. The Return of the Overanalysis

The corridor was flashing past him in scattered bits. White and brown and grey and black all flashed past as Brownie pumped his arms and legs faster. Sweat dripped down his neck and back.

_Gotta get to safety, gotta avoid anyone…_

Hurtling past, the sharp turn made his hip collide with the antique wooden wall. Brownie hissed in pain. One gloved hand wandered down to where the pain emanated: he had hit the wall with such force Brownie simply had to slow down his gait to a mild trot.

Thankfully, the throbbing pain in his hip gave Brownie brief respite to fix his tie, vest, apron, and hair. They had all been tousled beyond their normal, neat appearance during his and B-52’s - Brownie’s cheeks flushed - activities, which totally coincidentally was the reason he had been running through the hallways like an animal.

 _You shouldn’t have done that,_ Brownie scolded himself. His cat ears down low made fixing his dark rectangular hat easier. What time was it even? How long had he spent in B-52’s room? Brownie now pricked up his cat ears in attention, but the only sounds he could pick up were vague mutters beyond the doors leading to the dorms of his fellow food souls. 

It seemed that no one else was outside now, which was good, because Brownie still felt a little jumbled up from just now, his nerves tied up in little pretzel knots. Asking him to confront literally anyone was a challenge for Brownie at the moment.

_Hang on. This isn’t the correct corridor._

Chastising himself for his poor response, Brownie turned around and walked back the way he came. This time, he took the correct left turn leading to his dorm. Cat ears picked up the sounds of a shower running, giggles from beyond someone’s door (most likely Jiuniang’s), and then Brownie flinched as he heard Bamboo shout, “BIG AH! BEHAVE!”

So thankfully, it appeared as though no one would be paying attention to him tonight. And as Brownie swung his door open with many, many creaks, he realised that he was now left alone, with free reign to stew over his thoughts and reflections of the time he had spent together with his partner…

 _Why did I just leave like that?_ Brownie groaned and cupped his face in his hands. Placing his hat on his bedside table, Brownie collapsed into bed with a flick of the lamp. _Why did I just run out like that? What must B-52 be thinking right now?_

B-52 was the more pressing matter here. He could think about the psychology of his own actions later on, because heavens knew he had any idea why he had just… bolted. Had Brownie hurt his feelings? No… try as he might Brownie didn’t think he remembered B-52 looking like he was hurt, and B-52 certainly wasn’t the type to disguise such a thing. That meant that there was still hope. Unless now B-52 was thinking about the situation similarly to Brownie himself and now was feeling hurt. Like maybe he wasn’t good enough. As always.

Brownie knew that he had inadvertently pressured B-52 prior to their practice kisses, and even now, as he swept one hand over his elbow - oh wait, that’s right, why was he still in his butler outfit? - Brownie couldn’t help but feel guilty about that. He had taken responsibility, though. It was okay, he just had to take note of it in the future. Sometimes, teasing could go to far, as he himself had learned just this evening… which made his action even more moronic in hindsight.

 _Ughhh._ Brownie messed up his own dark hair that he had only just tidied up in agitation. _Why is this so hard? If only there was an instruction manual of things I could follow._

Hang on. He _had_ made one, sort of, that one time he had gone to Chocolate for advice. One that was specific to B-52. Now that they were actually in a relationship, he desperately needed direction. Perhaps his past self had some good ideas. Brownie could call upon it for some limited form of guidance. And when he ran out, perhaps he could turn to Mistress Black Tea for help. She did, after all, seem more experienced, and seemed happy to help.

 _Chocolate has good ideas sometimes,_ Brownie conceded as he crept over to his desk. Before he opened the drawer, he mulled over the lingering mystery in his mind… which happened to not be a mystery at all. _I was stupid, so I ran,_ Brownie concluded dully. _I felt embarrassed, so I ran._

Well, then. Brownie would just have to work on that… that impulse to bolt away or to die whenever something extremely embarrassing happened to him. It might also be for B-52’s benefit, as well. He couldn’t exactly leave his partner like that in the dust, could he? He should write that on the list.

With that thought in mind, Brownie rummaged around in his drawer. _There were also date ideas on the list,_ he remembered. _And tidbits about B-52, and how to treat him. Well, I’m certain, with this new knowledge I can add, I can do that even better… wait. Wait._

Horror dawned upon him. Craning his neck forward until Brownie was all but staring his empty - except, of course, for several scattered pens and the like - drawer in the face, the dark-haired butler had never known true _fear_ until now. Not even when he had been gunning down fallen angels after fallen angels in the battlefield, not even when he was a new food soul, disoriented at first being summoned, not even when he had first caught a glimpse of that blond, half-mechanical food soul crumpled in the ruins of the catacombs…

_Where’s the list!?_

.

B-52 lay awake in the darkness of his room, clad in his nightclothes.

He had finally pulled himself together enough after approximately half an hour of rocking back and forth on his bed regretting all life decisions he had made that day to change into pyjamas.

Now, he stared at the ceiling as he continued to mull over events from the night. At least he was in a more comfortable outfit.

 _Did I frighten off Brownie? I'll have to look for him tomorrow,_ B-52 thought, red splattered across his cheeks. Even after plenty of thinking, he still had no idea how that dominant side of him had emerged. Apparently this was a common part of feeling strong emotion, B-52 had learned. Sometimes things just happened when you go with the flow too much. Still, however, it was almost embarrassing, how natural it had felt. He had no excuse. B-52 squeezed his eyes shut for the umpteenth time as the scene replayed in his mind again.

_Why why why why why._

Maybe Brownie hadn’t liked it? Was B-52 pushing his limits with Brownie’s patience way too far? But he hadn’t really seemed angry, had he? Just seemed more than a little embarrassed, and dashing off just like that… B-52 cringed. _Okay yeah no he totally didn’t like me doing that._

He should find Brownie tomorrow and apologise for whatever had come over him like that. It was late right now and Brownie probably wouldn’t like it very much either if he suddenly showed up over there now. Not to mention all the rumors that would create once again. B-52 shuddered at the thought of Chocolate and company starting that again. Seriously, didn’t they have anything better to do? Was his misery that amusing?

 _It’s no use. Thinking about this won’t change anything now,_ B-52 thought as he closed his eyes. _I just like Brownie a lot and we’ll figure it out or something. Maybe he’ll even help me later on._ He had better go to sleep. Then he could have the mental energy to face Brownie tomorrow, with the courage one might have when facing a whole horde of fallen angels in battle… somehow, B-52 had almost forgotten he had a mission tomorrow. 

Brownie did that to him, it seemed. Kissing him stole B-52’s breath away and made him forget about the stress, the mundane things in life. B-52 couldn’t wait till he had a break again. Their... date today had really refreshed him in a way a simple nap could not. 

Now, B-52’s thoughts shifted over to Brownie, what he might be doing. Was he thinking of him as he fell asleep? Early to bed, early to rise was his policy, but B-52 had made him disrupt that rule now. B-52 hoped he wasn’t too mad about that. B-52 rolled on his side, yawning. Besides, Coffee, Chocolate, and Gluten were still on Brownie’s cleaning duty, after all. B-52 had no idea why the butler still felt like he needed to wake up early, but his sense of responsibility was so _endearing_...

As B-52 drifted off to sleep, he hoped that Brownie would have good dreams tonight.


	42. An Inopportune Breakfast

“Ugh…”

Blurrily, Brownie cracked open one eye, pulled from the deep clutches of sleep. One ear twitched, and he stretched, mouth falling open in a yawn. Brownie then blinked, realising that his hands were still gloved. By extension, his gaze followed his arm, then dropped down to his chest, waist, and legs. 

Hang on a second, why _was_ Brownie still clad in his butler uniform?

Then, just as suddenly, it hit him: Of _course_ he had spent the better part of last night panicking over the fact that his highly valued, extremely private list of date things to do with B-52 was _missing_. Missing! Brownie groaned, falling back unceremoniously onto his bed. How could this be happening?

Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he could still refute the horrifying reality. Perhaps the universe itself was simply mistaken!

Brownie wanted to believe it all had been a mistake… but the simple fact remained that he had searched everywhere in his room, except for underneath the desk and bed and drawers and the like, which he had yet to do due to his lack of energy last night. He was planning to do this immediately after breakfast, however. He had no time to lose. Hopefully it really was still in his room and every second spent at breakfast increased the amount of time the list would fall into the wrong person’s hands… assuming it hadn’t already.

Brownie clutched his head and sighed, all but tearing out dark strands of hair in frustration. _Great. Fantastic. Brilliant,_ he thought darkly. His privacy was being compromised once again, and it didn’t even take a genius to figure out by who. He really ought to report them to Master Attendant, but first, he needed proof. 

He probably would have a list of food souls queueing to back him up on Chocolate and Gluten’s untrustworthiness anyway. Brownie ticked them off one by one on his fingers: B-52, of course, then Napoleon, then Steak, Black Tea and Sanma and the gods knew who else they had bothered. For goodness sake, Miso might even give their schemes away himself: the cowardly monk would probably be begging for forgiveness at the drop of a hat the instant Master Attendant mentioned knowing about his friends’ highly questionable activities.

Glancing outside his window, Brownie supposed he should go to breakfast, but… facing _how many_ food souls right now didn't seem particularly appealing to Brownie. And… wait. Brownie glanced up at the clock on his wall. His face grew pale.

Exactly thirty-five minutes past eight. Breakfast was almost over and cleanup crew would be tidying up the food right about now. For a moment, Brownie debated the pros and cons of deciding to go to breakfast, but he finally settled on the fact that if he didn’t show up then a certain Napoleon Cake would kick his door down and demand to know what was wrong. As much as Brownie loved how Napoleon was always there for him, he didn’t think he could deflect any questions about what exactly was bothering him, and in the process, might accidentally reveal some prime teasing fodder. Brownie was walking on a tightrope of absolute torture.

He wasn’t usually the type, but Brownie couldn’t help throwing a few choice curses to the troublemakers mentally.

So, it was with haste that Brownie straightened out his butler outfit, slapping his hat on as he turned the doorknob and raced outside to the restaurant. It certainly was convenient that he had actually fallen asleep in it, a true blessing in disguise. Brownie decided that he still really needed a shower later, anyway.

Just before he entered the restaurant, he took a moment to straighten himself out again, and to calm down, steadying his chest that was heaving for breath. It wasn’t good looking so agitated after all. Then the others would still ask him what was wrong, if he was okay, and all that. Not that he didn’t appreciate their concern, but Brownie both didn’t want to trouble them and didn’t want to deal with that today. 

With a final run of his hand through his dark hair, Brownie pushed open the door and stepped into the restaurant. 

Fortunately, Brownie wasn’t the only latecomer to breakfast. Even though he got strange looks from the other food souls who knew him to be always responsible and punctual, Brownie just gave them all sheepish smiles. He pinched a single croissant off the sad-looking tray and placed it gingerly on a white porcelain plate. Brownie hesitated as he clutched the plate close to his chest. Nearly all of the tables were littered with crumbs and scattered plates and leftovers. Running out of options, Brownie took a seat at an empty table with slightly less brown crumbs all over the surface. It did, however have a trail of a single noodle.

Brownie took a bite of the croissant. It broke away in his mouth feeling cold and limp, not at all crispy. Still, Brownie supposed he couldn’t complain. It was good, but the texture couldn’t be helped given how late he was. Brownie glanced up at the clock, relieved to find he still had fifteen minutes left to the end of breakfast. Perhaps Master Attendant would even let him help with cleanup later on, Brownie thought hopefully.

Brownie popped the rest of the croissant into his mouth and stood up, being careful to push in his chair. Then, his spine prickled with tension as he felt someone watching him. The presence drew nearer and nearer. Brownie stiffened when a familiar hand tapped his shoulder, a hand that beared too much weight to be real flesh and skin.

“Hey, Brownie. I was waiting for you. Are you okay?”

Brownie took in a sharp breath. Of all food souls to run into right now… Bracing himself, Brownie whipped around to face his partner. One eye was obscured as usual, but the one that was exposed still held traces of sleep in blue. B-52 stopped for a moment to brush the blond bangs out of his eye. For a moment, the gesture distracted Brownie, reminding him of exactly how soft his hair was to the touch, thrusting him back into the rather intimate moments they had shared yesterday…

“Waiting for me?” Brownie asked, pulling his mind away from that dangerous train of thought.

“Yeah.” B-52 nodded. “You were sort of late today. I kind of wanted to talk to you earlier, but you’re here now. And, well, not gonna lie, I’m more worried now. You’re never late, Brownie. Everything really okay?”

“I… I’m okay,” Brownie replied after swallowing down the lump in his throat. Goodness. His day had barely started and Brownie was already faced with the most awkward situation of his life so far. How was he supposed to get B-52 off his trail? He couldn’t exactly walk right up to him and say, ‘By the way, B-52, I have to get going to find that secret list I wrote all about you and us and I will die if someone finds it even though it might be a lost cause!’ Not to mention how counterproductive that would be, given that B-52 was the one food soul Brownie didn’t want knowing about the hastily put together list.

Filled with the urge to clutch onto something, the apron was the target of Brownie’s awkwardness-induced frustration. Twisting it into a large knot in his anxiety, Brownie tried to keep still and listen properly to what B-52 had to say… if he could get the words out properly, that was.

“B-Brownie, about last… yesterday.” B-52 winced at his own wording and muttered to himself. He spent a while awkwardly fiddling with his hands and looking at Brownie, and then to the floor.

Ordinarily, Brownie would have loved the chance to talk to B-52 amidst both their busy schedules, but when he shot a glance over at the clock, it told him he had five minutes to get to his room and shoo out whoever was supposed to clean it. “What do you want to say?” Brownie asked curtly, a little harsher than he had meant to.

B-52’s lips parted at that. His shoulders tightened as he hunched over a little, hugging his elbows, but worst of all was the flash of hurt in his blue eye. “I… I just wanted to know if what I did was bad,” he replied, sounding like a little child who had been punished unfairly, “and if you think it’s bad I’ll try not to do it again.”

Brownie’s face softened at that, his own mouth gaping slightly open. What had he done? How could he have said such tactless things? Perhaps the stress of everything really was getting to him. “I… B-52,” he stammered, “I’m… no, of course not -”

“I guess you’re busy right now. Sorry. I won’t bother you right now then.” Before Brownie could see his expression, B-52 slapped a hand over his face. This didn’t prevent him from seeing the way the other male’s bottom lip trembled, however, even as he spun around and made to stride outside the restaurant.

“B-52!” Brownie called, racing after him. He managed to catch B-52 by the arm. Tugging on it to hopefully get his attention and stop him from walking away, Brownie pleaded, “I’m sorry about that. You’re right. I’m… I kinda have things to do right now, but can we talk afterwards?”

B-52 didn’t respond immediately, but to Brownie’s relief, he removed his hand, using his index finger to wipe the corner of his exposed eye. Brownie’s heart ached in guilt. He didn’t stop pulling on B-52’s hand, as if hoping that their contact would help him plead his case.

“Y-yeah.” B-52 mastered up a weak chuckle. “No, I get it, I have a mission too, but… so I’m not overstaying my welcome?”

“No,” Brownie promised, a smile flitting across his face at his apparent success. “No, you aren’t. I don’t think you ever could.”

B-52 chuckled once more, and this time swiped his fist across the corner of his mouth. “Okay, sorry. I guess this is a thing we should save for later. Hey, and I guess I should acknowledge you too.”

Brownie cocked his head in confusion.

“Y-yeah, what I mean is, sometimes I’m kinda the same when I’m busyish and…” Visibly struggling for the words, B-52 used his free hand to make all sorts of frantic gestures. “Yeah, no, actually you sort of helped. It’s just… actually you kind of helped me realise, you know, when I lash out like that… it doesn’t feel so good when the table’s turned,” he said. “I mean, not that I didn’t know that before, but I’ve never really tried to stop doing it, honestly. I’ll try from now on, Brownie. Thank you for listening.” 

Touched that B-52 was making an effort for him, and everyone else, Brownie gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. He then let go of his hand, which B-52 raised in farewell. “And now, I have a mission to go on. I have to find my teammates,” said B-52. “You have something to do, right? Good luck.”

“And I wish you good luck as well.” Brownie turned his head, quickly scanning around the room. There didn’t seem to be anyone really paying attention to them, and these days, Brownie felt like they were both growing more and more daring in expressing their affections to each other. And a certain rebellious side to him wanted to test how far it could go, but not abruptly, or all at once, of course. It would have to be something they both agreed on. 

So, Brownie settled for leaning in, pressing a kiss to B-52’s cheek.

Leaning back, Brownie flashed him another smile, brushing past him on his way to the door. As he strode out into the corridor, Brownie took slight pride in the fact that B-52 was still standing, apparently catatonic, in the restaurant.

 _Now._ Brownie closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath, once again straightening his vest to look presentable. The smile fell off his face. Right, of course. Back to business. One that involved turning over every single nook and cranny, with no dust bunnies left unturned; his naturally enhanced strength as a food soul would aid him in this task. Brownie let out the breath he had been holding in one huge rush, gritting his teeth, adjusting his tie yet another time.

Hopefully, just hopefully, this search wasn't a lost cause.


	43. Winded

B-52 scurried along behind his team, deep in thought. In his absent-minded state, his mechanical wings flapped, making sure he was hovering at least an inch above the ground at any given moment. Twiddling his fingers together, his mind couldn’t help drifting to this morning’s events again and again. 

B-52 could not match Brownie’s organisational prowess, but he could at least try to imitate it, as jumbled up as his attempts got.

So, firstly: Brownie was not angry at him. That was good. B-52 still didn’t know what he would do if Brownie was angry at him. Secondly: Brownie had explained his thoughts to him, preventing or at least trying to decrease miscommunication, which B-52 thought was a good idea, something he should emulate. Brownie had seemed… upset about something, but he was pretty sure he’d be telling him later, and if not, then B-52 probably shouldn’t intrude. Just because they were partners didn’t mean they had to tell each other everything, after all. Thirdly, and this was the major point that had B-52’s stomach doing aerial aerobics: Brownie wanted to talk later. About what? B-52 didn’t know if the adrenaline rushing in his veins was excitement or apprehension.

Once again, B-52’s gloved hand wandered to the place on his cheek where Brownie had kissed him. _No, no, no,_ B-52 scolded himself quickly. _Not now, when we’re on a mission!_

Still, though, there was no denying the warmth that lingered, that told tales of Brownie’s goodness.

“B-52? Where are you going?” Black Tea called. Her voice sounded… rather distant, with a faint echo. With a start, B-52 jerked, taking in his surroundings. Embroiled in his thoughts as he was, B-52 had lost attention, and now he was hovering around half of the forest trees’ height.

“I’m sorry,” B-52 muttered as he swooped down, landing neatly on his feet beside Black Tea. He kept his head down, feeling his back prickle at the four pairs of eyes staring right at him. 

Black Tea shot him a look that B-52 couldn’t read, but her lips seemed to quirk up at the sides. “It gets easier,” she offered in a carefully neutral tone.

“What does?” B-52 asked, kicking a rock forcefully. It shot off deep into the forest.

“We’re now approaching the east side of the Secret Forest,” Milk piped up in her usual dull tone. If she felt any kind of fear, she didn’t display it. “Be careful. Master Attendant warned us about powerful fallen angels here.”

Bamboo laughed boisterously, only to be silenced a second later with Black Tea’s icy glare. “So what?” he asked, coughing meaningfully, obviously disbelieving. “We’ve handled tons of fallens before. It’s not like this will be anything different!” He drew his sword with a flourish, spinning it in his grasp. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

“The fallen angels here were strong enough to destroy an entire city,” Milk informed him flatly.

“The fallen angels back there are nothing, Bamboo Rice,” said Black Tea sternly. Her hands gripped her twin pistols firmly. “Parisel is still a relatively peaceful area.”

“We’re now approaching the ruins of Karen city,” added Foie. She was fluttering along behind them, but her posture was wary. She held her sceptre in front of her, head tilted to the sky as if a fallen angel would suddenly pounce on them. “A major battle was fought against fallen angels here. The humans failed to fend them off, and they destroyed the tree-line fringe of Karen City. The survivors left Karen City and fled westwards. Some fled to Sakurajima, others to Hilena. Only a handful of adventurers dare to approach this area.”

The confident smile on Bamboo’s face grew strained. “So, uh… about these… fallens...”

B-52 felt ice grip at his heart. _Crap._ He hadn’t been thinking again. What an idiot, alerting the enemy to their position in a _danger zone_. What had he even been thinking? Why did he keep messing things up, not just for himself, but for everyone around him. Muttering an apology, B-52 drew his cane out. _Best to be prepared, and to proceed with caution._

These certainly did not sound like any ordinary fallen angels.

The cheerful atmosphere and chatter of their five-man band faded away. Chilled to the bone by Milk’s warning, all five of them proceeded with caution. B-52 for his part felt his heart being trampled with guilt again and again. _If any of them are in danger,_ B-52 told himself grimly, _It’ll be my fault._

The forest seemed oppressive and dark, shadows looming at the boundaries of B-52’s vision. Though it was still noon, not a shred of sunlight could pierce through the thick canopy of the forest. In the distance, he could identify what seemed to be the start of the ruins: yellow bricks or cement or something all lay about in disarray. Ivy had grown all over them, so it was hard to tell. B-52 felt like ants were crawling on his back, his chest, all over his arms and legs. Perspiration on his hands threatened to make him drop his weapon. There had to be someone, or something, watching…

“B-52,” ordered Black Tea quietly, “scan the area.”

Her command was acknowledged with a curt nod of his head. Initiating the process, B-52 squinted his eyes, letting his programming take over. He hated that he had this sort of trick up his sleeve in the first place. It was yet another painful reminder that he wasn’t like the other food souls, that his past was violent and bloody and not at all what he stood for. However, he’d long since resigned himself to using this ability in battle. If he told himself it was to watch out for his teammates, he’d be okay. He would do all he could to prevent another death on his hands.

Shaking his head, B-52 said, “There’s nothing.”

“...nothing?” Black Tea’s eyes sharpened.

“Yes, nothing.” B-52 frowned. “Apart from the trees and the fungi, there doesn’t even seem to be anything else here that’s alive. No birds, no squirrels, no deer, nothing at all.”

B-52’s eyes swept around his team, lingering on Bamboo for longer than the others. However, it seemed that B-52 needn’t have worried. Even the usually bright and loud idiotic green-haired man had realised something was amiss. He placed a finger to his lips, regarding his bamboo rats with a stern expression. They instantly obeyed his command, stopping their roughhousing to step forward and surround their master, keeping a lookout in directions Bamboo rice could not simultaneously.

Their journey towards the ruins was fraught with tension. Everytime B-52 accidentally stepped on a leaf, the resulting crinkle would have him flinching. At some point, he had to put his weapon away in order to climb over a small hill. B-52 longed to just continually leave his scanner running, just to ease his mind. Even so, he knew he couldn’t: doing so would leave him too exhausted to properly partake in battle.

Nobody had picked up on anything yet, which was strange. Ordinarily, they’d long since have run into the utter stench that was fallen angel energy, surprising any fallens that had thought it’d been a good idea to sneak up on them. But now… it seemed as though Master Attendant might have been mistaken. Finally giving in to the urge, B-52 initiated his scanner even without Black Tea’s input. _There is nothing here,_ B-52 thought in utter confusion after it had finished running. _Nothing._

Somehow, that didn’t comfort him at all.

At the head of the party, Black Tea was the first to reach the ruins. A worn placard greeted them, looking barely readable. The stone was cracked at the edges, as well as looking defaced by some crude signatures scribbled hastily on top. “Karen City,” she read aloud, slowly. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

All five food souls froze. Their heads turned slowly towards the source of the voice. It sounded young, feminine, light and pretty, belonging to a young, blonde woman. Her pale locks extended down her back, and she was wearing an airy dress with a white sun hat that wouldn’t look out of place at the beach…

B-52’s eyes narrowed. His hand subtly reached for the cane strapped to his waist.

“Oh? Are you a food soul too?” Bamboo asked eagerly. “I used to live in the forest around here somewhere until I was summoned by my Master Attendant, and, well, I’ve never met you before.”

B-52 knew his teammate wasn’t that stupid. There was no way anyone on this party had missed the actions of their mechanical scout. _Good, good,_ B-52 thought. _Continue stalling, Bamboo._ At least until he could figure out what threat they were dealing with here. Whatever she was, she was incredibly skilled. B-52 had yet to see any fallen angel that could disguise their presence to such a degree. There was no trace of fallen angel energy in the area, even though she was standing barely a meter away.

“Is that so?” The stranger smiled. “Well, I’m certain we would have been great friends.”

Milk shuffled back, and B-52 stepped in front, trying to make it look like he was simply trying to get a closer look at the stranger rather than getting into battle formation. Behind, obscured by B-52 and Bamboo’s bodies respectively, Black Tea unsheathed her pistols, and Foie drew her sceptre. 

Bamboo took the opportunity of a lull in his conversation with the stranger to shoot B-52 a glance before he resumed talking. “And what’s your name, pretty lady?”

“Oh? _My name?_ ” The blonde woman’s smile stretched wider. 

Suddenly, she didn’t look quite so beautiful anymore. There was a rumble, and then something erupted, as if from underground. Her sundress ripped at the seams with an audible snap, then lay discarded on the ground in scraps. Pulsing, flesh-coloured tentacles emerged from her waist, all tipped with spikes. There was no need for the scanner now; the smell of rotting flesh filled the air, magnified to a truly unnatural degree. The way the tentacles moved, each independent of each other, made B-52 feel nauseous. With a giggle, the fallen angel swiped her sunhat off, revealing a monstrously large gaping jaw with teeth that looked like it could rip heads off.

The next thing he heard was Milk’s piercing scream.

“ _Milk_!” was Black Tea’s desperate cry. B-52 cast a glance over his shoulder, confirming in a split second that Black Tea was supporting her side. Milk’s side looked like it had been pierced three times over, but how? Returning his gaze to the fallen angel, B-52 realised with a sinking feeling what her weapon was: a towering fork that was probably more than twice his size, most certainly made of incredibly strong materials, perhaps even strengthened by fallen magic.

She was _smart_. No other fallen angel they had encountered so far had thought to put the healer out of commission first. 

Enraged, Bamboo rushed at her with his sword, but the fallen angel merely laughed and swatted him out of her way with her weapon. She didn’t sound quite so lovely anymore - now her voice had deepened, scratchy and hoarse sounding like something that had crawled out of the deepest pits of hell. And yet, bizarrely, her laughter sounded more like a screech. It sounded as if someone was dragging their nails over a chalkboard again and again and _again_. B-52 gritted his teeth, trying in vain to cover both his ears with only one hand.

Milk was right. This was truly a dangerous, elite fallen angel, unlike anything they had ever faced before.

“ _Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners?_ ” Again with the high screeching sound that vaguely resembled laughter. It didn’t seem as if the fallen angel was interested in playing around, however. B-52 let out a yelp as something exploded, overwhelming his senses and reducing everything to a constant screech in his mind. Just a second later, what felt like a million rocks were flung into his body, as if he was just a useless stuffed bag for training practice. His mechanical parts hurt the most when struck. Something pierced his right eye, and he cried out. The pain was unimaginable, as if someone had stuck a million tiny needles in his eye.

B-52’s legs gave out and he collapsed on the ground chest first. Gritting his teeth against the sharp pain, it was all he could do to raise a hand to his right eye to check the extent of his injuries.

_Fucking hell!_

He had pricked his finger. Something wet and sticky was flowing down. B-52 had a very good idea what it was. Quickly, he withdrew, examining his finger. There was no doubt about it - his glass lens had been broken from the impact. B-52’s blood ran cold.

“B-52!” Bamboo yelled, sounding distant. When B-52 looked up, his right eye was swollen shut, and his left eye was unable to see anything properly. Everything was spinning, blurry. In his hazy state, B-52 thought he saw a large tuft of green slumped against a tree. Gritting his teeth, B-52 braced himself on his elbows, attempting to stand up. 

_I need to fight. I’ve got to._

“B-52!” Bamboo called again, the urgency in his voice making B-52 stop in his actions from pure shock. “We gotta get you out of here - you’ll go blind - _ugh_!”

When B-52’s head snapped up, he realised that Bamboo had been sent rolling from the impact of the fallen angel’s attack. Now, she stood over him, smirking, holding him down with three of her tentacles even as he struggled in getting away. Furious, he bit down on her tentacles over again and over again, but all this earned him was another sharp piercing with her fork.

Desperately, B-52 looked around him, only to find that three of their teammates were gone. _Good, good,_ he thought, his thoughts becoming alarmingly inane. _Please… Black Tea, Milk, Foie, please get us out of here! Alive!_

This wasn’t a simple battle as they had hoped. When they got home, Master Attendant would be so worried. 

Unless… no, they had to get home. He had friends. He had Brownie! He couldn’t - wouldn’t give up now!

B-52 forced himself to stay positive, not to think of what exactly could happen as the fallen angel marched towards him, with purpose in her strides. B-52’s experiences in the catacombs flashed by even as he struggled to keep his one eye open. No… then he was alone. He wasn’t now. _I need to have faith. I can’t lose hope._

A tentacle shot out and pinned B-52 against a tree. His back collided painfully with the trunk. His lungs heaved, overwhelmed with the desire to cough and gag at the sheer smell, but B-52 couldn’t, not with the large, fleshy tentacle trapping his throat and chest. It was a good thing food souls didn’t need to breathe, or he’d have long since suffocated from the rotting smell alone. As he struggled to lift it off him, struggled to reach his cane, the fallen angel laughed again. B-52 winced, trying with all his might to draw away from the hellish sound.

“ _I don’t believe we’ve met,_ ” said the fallen angel with alarming serenity.

B-52 raised his chin, refusing to back down. He tried to glare, but his right eye screamed in protest. It was all he could do to hold his gaze, even against a foe this formidable.

She obviously did not think much of his silent rebellion. “ _I am Uke Mochi._ ” The fallen angel grinned, keeping him pinned as she raised her fork. “ _And I can’t wait to have you as my lunch._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of gameplay and story segregation here, some of which is actually present in the game’s lore itself weirdly enough.


	44. Wounded

There was a bright flash. B-52 thought he heard a feminine voice cry something. Then, an aura of pink engulfed him where he remained pinned to the tree with gross, squishy flesh. The light was bright, almost blinding. B-52 reflexively squinted his eyes, which made him hiss out in pain as the action further aggravated his injured eye. 

Without much time to react, his legs hit the ground next, his body crumpling on top of it. He had fallen, what, two meters? And he’d landed awkwardly as well, with no proper warning and pain dulling his senses. B-52 grimaced and drew his legs close to himself, nursing the pain from the impact of his ill-fated landing. His fingers swept across mangled, torn bits of flesh that had been left as reminders. His nose wrinkled at the smell. 

His attempt to flap his wings to check their status was cut short as a familiar white-haired food soul scurried forward, zigzagging between the trees. “Come on!” she whispered hurriedly, cold ice melted in the face of urgency. “Can you stand?”

B-52 nodded, using the tree which had just seconds prior been the bane of his existence to right himself. Hobbling on both legs unsteadily, he nevertheless gave Milk a nod.

He could tell from Milk’s narrowed eyes that she was concerned, but nevertheless she turned and darted behind a tree after gesturing for him to follow.

B-52 didn’t need to ask why. He cast a quick glance towards the scene of the battle to find Uke Mochi staggering about, great big fleshy tentacles stumbling about in an almost comical fashion. Black Tea was at a distance hidden on top of a tree somewhere, firing her twin pistols at the giant fallen angel. Foie and Bamboo circled their foe, swooping in and out, stabbing it, slicing it with all they had. Bamboo was in a blind rage now, his movements barbaric compared to Foie’s cold, calculated strikes of precision.

All this information was processed by B-52 in but a matter of seconds as he got himself to his feet, dragging himself over like a sack of potatoes to where Milk was. 

Milk was ready for him with her healing hands already glowing white by the time he arrived. B-52 flopped down on the grass with a sigh. Milk’s lips were pursed and her features were tense; B-52 noticed her ripped clothes now had a bandage tied around her injured side. Muscles stiff, Milk nonetheless made an attempt to relax them as she approached B-52. “Take off your broken lens,” she ordered as she ran a hand along B-52’s legs. 

B-52 resisted the urge to let out a sigh of relief as her magic worked its way into skin and bone, soothing some of the pain immediately. Noises had to be kept to a minimum lest he alert the fallen angel. Letting Milk work her magic, B-52 obeyed, wincing as he carefully, carefully peeled the broken glass from his eye. It didn’t help that every time there was pain his instinct was to squeeze his eyes shut, which simply magnified the pain. B-52 felt his eyes tear up… or maybe it was blood?

“I’m going to have to remove all of the glass,” Milk informed him as she placed the broken piece of equipment beside them on the grass. “It will hurt,” she said calmly, but not unkindly. 

Calm was good. He needed calm right now. He needed his wits about him if he was to be any use at all. And that meant first priority was getting medical attention, at least until the pain dulled to a manageable degree. Brushing aside the urge to shut his eyes (you really didn’t appreciate the simple things until they were gone), B-52 replied, “Get it over with.”

At the same time, he kept an ear out for his allies, senses tuned to any sign of excessive distress that signalled the turn of the tide of battle, ready to rush to their side if he heard so much as a cry for his name.

“My charms don’t work!” Foie raised her voice above the chaos of battle. “Continue attacking!”

There was a sharp, metallic _twang_ that rung in the air. A sharp thud followed by a usually calm voice that now carried dangerous undercurrents of rage: “You’ll pay for what you did to her!” B-52 couldn’t help but smirk to himself as he recognised Black Tea’s signature battle cry: “It ends here!” Purple, pink, and white flower petals scattered into the air.

“BIG AH!” Bamboo yelled. This was followed by a screech, and B-52 felt a sense of pride at the thought that Bamboo had probably ran that stupid Uke Mochi through with his sword.

“B-52,” Milk interrupted his staring urgently, “if I don’t get your eye back to at least a manageable amount of pain, you won’t be battling.”

B-52 sighed, then nodded his head. Satisfied, Milk crouched down so they were level with each other. A sharp pain stabbed him in the eye again and B-52 almost cried out. His jaws clamped firmly around his fist to soothe at least some of the pain. Milk plucked yet another piece of glass out of his injured eye, and B-52 hated the fact that he whimpered into his fist. Blood and tears were probably blurring together now. B-52 could barely see. There was the overwhelming urge to shut his eyes again, to stop the pain, stop Milk from continuing to inflict this _godforsaken pain_ on him again and again and again, but B-52 did not close his eyes.

Finally, with B-52 panting slightly into his mouth, Milk leaned forward a little and narrowed her eyes. “That’s it,” she said. “You’re halfway there. I’ll just need to rinse this wound with water and then I can help dull the pain.”

 _That sounds great,_ B-52 thought dully as she poured some of her supply of fresh water into his eye. If water on a deep scratch wound was bad, this was sheer _agony_. Everything stung and B-52 found himself clinging onto Milk’s arm just to get her to _stop_. He couldn’t even pay attention to the battle anymore, and it faded to faint background noises as he gritted his teeth against the pain.

“Good job,” Milk said, withdrawing her canteen. Somehow, she still sounded calm. B-52 wanted to sob in relief, but he was positive that salt water would only make everything hurt worse. Everything was blurry and Milk was a mix of monochrome against a swathe of greens. Then, B-52 nearly sagged in relief as he felt Milk’s magic trickle into his wound, soothing the pain and clearing up his vision. There was still a dull, throbbing ache at the back of his eye somewhere, but for now it was nothing worse than a typical battle wound.

Chills ran down his spine as he heard a screech from the creature again. This time Uke Mochi didn’t sound like she was laughing. It was a sound of pure rage, and that couldn’t bode well for him and his teammates. Even this far away, B-52 could hear the loathsome hiss of Uke Mochi: “ _You really think it’d end here? Silly, silly food souls..._ ”

There was the squelching sound again, and tremors underfoot; Milk’s canteen spilled over, resulting in a ever growing puddle of water as she scrambled to recap the canteen.

This time, when B-52 stared out at the scene of the battle, he nearly recoiled in shock at what he saw.

_She can transform!_

Uke Mochi certainly did _not_ look beautiful now. At least in her prior form she was still vaguely humanoid: what replaced that form was a giant, large, squishy creature that made B-52 feel sick just by staring at it. A long, twin-forked tongue extended out of the gaping jaw, which had swelled to a size so large that it was now probably about the same size as the canopies on the forest trees. On the back of the jaw were several eyeballs glaring in all directions. This jaw, saliva dripping from its giant teeth, sat on a throne of the same large, veiny tentacles as before, but now with root-like extensions added to them. 

B-52 had not ever come across a fallen angel as instantly _repulsive_ as this one.

“Bamboo!” 

As B-52 stared, Foie flew right into the large green-haired man, shoving him out of the way just before a precise strike from one of the tentacles. The massive fallen angel continued striking again and again and again, crashing down like an ocean wave, forcing the three food souls to run and dodge the fast-paced, lightning-quick attacks. However, it wasn’t before long before Uke Mochi (or was that even her… its name anymore?) managed to catch the slower Bamboo on an upwards flick of a tentacle. Bamboo was flung high into the nearest tree, hitting his head against the trunk and scraping his skin against the rough branches.

B-52’s legs moved to stand up. Then he realised he was being held down firmly by none other than Milk. He shot her a pleading glance, begging, “Milk, I have to do something!”

“You will do no good rushing at enemies as you always do,” Milk said sternly. “I know you think of yourself as a battle machine, but no machine is foolproof: they break. That, and you aren’t simply a machine to us, B-52. If you died…” A shadow fell over her face. “No, no, we mustn’t think about that.”

Despite the dire situation, B-52 felt his lips twitch upwards, touched at Milk’s words.

The healer smiled back, offering, “You could see what they’re doing and check if there’s anything in your arsenal you can deploy to help them.”

Taking Milk’s advice, he simply nodded before going back to observe the fight. It didn’t do any good taking one’s gaze off an extremely dangerous enemy anyway.

Hidden in thick foliage to the east, Black Tea had started firing her pistols at Uke Mochi, but each and every one of the bullets sank into its thick hide. The most it did was distract it. It looked around in annoyance as Bamboo crept away with one hand, his other hand nursing his head.

“Evade!” Foie ordered. She tensed her wings, and then in a split second she flew upwards, and was gone. Black Tea scurried out of her hiding spot to assist Bamboo. She was whispering things to him that B-52 couldn’t detect, but B-52 relaxed when Bamboo gave Black Tea a grin and thumbs up, even if the gestures were accompanied by obvious pain.

There was something falling from the sky: the graceful swan Foie Gras, hurtling towards her target with her scepter pointed at it. Her surprisingly strong wings beat faster and faster, gaining more and more speed until she finally impaled the big pulsating mass of meat with her weapon. 

From the surface, it didn’t look like Foie had done any damage, but then there was the unholy screech again. This time, as Foie swept her sceptre in a wide arc and pierced the fallen angel’s eyes, it recoiled, swiping one tentacle around blindly. “This is for B-52,” she said coldly, before she turned to where she knew Black Tea and Bamboo were. “Attack it now!”

Though wounded and limping, Bamboo obeyed instructions. Swaying on his feet a little, he nevertheless let out the loudest battle cry he could muster, swinging his sword, succeeding in cutting off one of its tentacles. Black Tea stayed back, lips pursed and an intense look of concentration on her pale, sweat-slicked face as she fired bullets at Uke Mochi.

After a few seconds, however, Bamboo was sent flying again, and Black Tea was forced backwards to avoid the flaying tentacles. Foie quickly flew over to where Bamboo was heading, stopping his poor head from colliding with yet another tree trunk by catching him in her arms. “Regroup!” she called out. Obeying, Black Tea scurried around the perimeter, giving the fallen angel a wide berth while trying to meet her teammates on the other side. Foie, for her part, was flying towards B-52 and Milk’s position, higher than Uke Mochi could see with any remaining eyes.

“Its defenses are too high,” Foie announced as she gently deposited a tired, injured Bamboo next to Milk. Her wings flapping from her agitation, she ordered, “Black Tea, keep an eye on Uke Mochi and notify us if it approaches.”

“Noted.” Black Tea turned to regard the fallen angel with a furious glint in her ruby red eyes, no doubt still ruminating over what it had done to Milk and the rest of her team.

Leaving Black Tea to check the number of bullets she had left, Foie turned to B-52. He was surprised at the attention from her: he hadn’t expected the icy food soul to even want to interact with anyone. Hell, she’d even dedicated an attack to him when usually all she was made of was stone cold silence. It caused a feeling of gratitude to bubble in B-52’s chest, but right now was not the right time to express his feelings.

Urgently, Foie explained, “That attack I did just now decreased its defense, but I can’t perform it very often. I need you to perform your regular attack, but to keep out of range of Uke Mochi. Keep flying and moving your position.”

Chest tight, B-52 nodded. He cast a sympathetic glance at Bamboo, whose rats were hugging him for comfort as Milk ran her hands over his head fo check for tenderness or swelling. “I didn’t expect Tom Yum’s job to be this hard,” he was saying as he winced.

Determination growing, he nodded at Foie. “So do I do it now?”

“Just a moment.” Foie turned to signal Black Tea. “Okay, B-52, now.”

B-52 licked his dry lips. His mechanical engines flared to life as he all but jumped into the sky with a single bound. Relieved to find his wings still working, he quickly found the giant target on the ground, who was still looking around, confused. Unsheathing his cane, he swooped in, shooting his signature green flames at the fallen angel.

Uke Mochi hissed at the feeling, spinning around blindly looking for the source of this new annoyance. Then, it screeched again, the sound so horrible B-52 stopped attacking just to press his hands against his ears, holding his cane with just his ring and pinkie finger. It wasn’t working very well, but thankfully Foie down below soldiered on, flitting to and fro, still somehow resembling a graceful butterfly as the sharp end of her sceptre pierced through masses of meaty flesh. Neatly, nimbly, she dodged every attack from the tentacles, who were lashing out and spinning and thumping the ground either from pain or from anger. Black Tea supported from afar, faithfully firing round after round. With B-52’s aid, her bullets managed to pierce the fallen angel’s hide.

 _It’s working,_ B-52 thought. Following Foie’s directions, he swooped sharply to the left, daring to dip down until he was hovering just above Uke Mochi. Then, he channeled all his energy in shooting flames right at the flesh, setting the fallen angel on fire. Although it screamed and lashed out again, B-52 ignored it. Everything seemed to have dulled now, and he was running on pure instinct and adrenaline. Flying up and down, zigzagging left and right, B-52 managed to set most of its top layer of rotting flesh alight. The scent left him gagging and reeling even as he drove the sharpened end of his cane deep into a weak spot he had found: a spot that seemed squisher than the rest of the surprisingly tough rotten hide.

“Keep going, B-52!” Foie called out. Her voice seemed near, and when B-52 looked he saw the blonde just below him, swinging her sceptre in a deadly arc and slicing off the fallen angel’s main weapons: its tentacles. 

Hopeful at the progress they were making, B-52 took flight again. He flew around the blinded fallen angel in circles, going round and round it, torching every area of its body that seemed to have managed to put out the flames on its own. It reminded B-52 of an extremely gross version of licking around the cone to catch all of the melting ice cream before it slid onto your hand. The defence reduction was definitely kicking into play now - with each thrust of Foie’s sceptre and each shot from Black Tea’s pistols, Uke Mochi’s cries grew weaker and weaker until B-52 didn’t even need to cover his ears anymore.

Damn, now if only he could do something about the rancid smell…

The telltale hollering made B-52 looked down. Bamboo Rice was back and ready to slice, or however his stupid new catchphrase went. Nonetheless, charging into battle with bandages rolled all over his head, B-52 had nothing but respect for his bravery. With another loud battle cry, Bamboo chopped off the one remaining tentacle on Uke Mochi with an expert flick of his hand.

With a final cry, it went still. 

“Is it dead?” Bamboo called out to Foie.

Foie paused in her stabbing, seeming to only have just realised the fallen angel had gone silent. She pierced it again, and waited for five seconds. When she got no response, she withdrew her sceptre. For the first time, B-52 could see a smile spreading across her stoic face.

B-52 lowered his cane, feeling dazed, tired, empty now that adrenaline had left him… but most of all, relief flooded his entire being.

He could scarcely believe it. They had survived this dangerous battle.

“Good job, team!” Bamboo called from down below, pumping his hand (still holding an extremely rancid-smelling sword) into the air. He ran forward to fling his arms around Foie, who started. Though she didn’t return his gesture, there was no denying she leaned into the hug. 

Milk scurried forward to greet Black Tea, who emerged from her thick cover. She barely had time to sheathe her pistols before Milk crashed into her, face positively alight with glee, eyes shining with tears. Black Tea smiled at her warmly, lifting her up and spinning her around. Their laughter could be heard even by B-52 in the sky.

He smiled as if in response to the displays, feeling a dizzying rush of emotions overcome his sense. He folded his arms, looking down at his teammates from above. Together, they had overcome the odds, and beaten this enormous threat. They had come out alive, and that was what was important. He stretched a little, lazily watching his teammates…

Fear gripped B-52’s heart. Instantly, he forced his wings to the maximum speed possible.

_The jaws are still twitching!_

There was simply not enough time to warn them, not from this high above. It was all B-52 could do to flap his mechanical wings faster and faster in a bid to get down there in time, otherwise -

_Danger. Danger. Exceeding maximum recommended speed._

_To hell with that!_ B-52 thought, gritting his teeth against the rush of air as he shot downwards. He tried not to shut his eyes against the fast, powerful air currents. _Doesn’t matter. Straight down, straight down,_ he told himself. _I only have one chance. I can’t miss this shot, not now._

_Exceeding pressure threshold._

B-52’s mechanical wings were starting to shiver and shake. The pain on his shoulders were palpable. Something was giving way. B-52 didn’t know what, but he could hear the telltale creak and groan of his wings struggling to work with what B-52 demanded of them. _Please,_ he thought to himself. _Just a little longer -_

The sharp pain in his shoulders was only matched by the pain he knew he was giving the fallen angel. Something exploded in his entire body, bones snapping the same split second he met Uke Mochi head-on. It had reared its ugly head, but B-52 crashing into it stopped any attacks it might have thought of making. Dazed, B-52 lay on top of the fallen angel’s body. The stench seemed far away now. Even the pain seemed far away now. B-52 laughed airily. _Fantastic._

“B-52!” Multiple voices, all hazy in B-52’s mind. Who was speaking again? He couldn’t tell.

“B-52!” Someone took his hand. With enormous effort, the blond tilted his head up. His vision was blurry again, darkened at the corners. _White…_ B-52 thought slowly. “Foie?”

“No, it’s Milk.” The food soul’s voice was grim. She let go, turning away and gesturing at him, barking orders B-52 couldn’t quite make out in this muddled state. He sighed, closing his eyes.

“Dude! Not funny!” 

Even opening his eyes seemed to take so much effort now. Still, he did so, opening his eyes just the tiniest slit to stare at the offending food soul. _I’m so sleepy…_

“B-52?” came another urgent feminine voice. B-52 didn’t bother checking to see who it was this time. His tired eyes had closed of their own accord. He wanted to sleep. “Say something!” was the same food soul again. B-52 wanted to bark at her for disturbing his rest, but somehow… now he didn’t even have the energy.

“It’s… tougher than it looks,” was the last thing B-52 remembered saying before his vision was swallowed up in black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously B-52 isnt gonna die, but he will be recovering for some time.


	45. Not-So-Good News

“You sure it was here?” Napoleon asked for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.

“Yes! It was right here!” Brownie, frazzled as he may be, refused to tear at his hair in frustration. That was a mark of those not in control, and maybe if he pretended he had any control over this situation right now, he would in fact be the one in control. And there was that voice buried deep down that told him he was overreacting over a piece of stupid paper. For all he knew it could have been a mistake: maybe someone had just thrown it out thinking it was trash or something.

Dwelling on the myriad of possibilities of how Brownie could be getting made fun of even right now was too much, however, so Brownie opted to steam and fume at finding himself in this situation in the first place. It was much easier, and served as a suitable distraction from sheer mortification.

“I’m positive that there’s no way any piece of paper could have just stood up and walked out like that!”

“Could be,” Napoleon said nonchalantly. Brownie almost wanted to demand to know how he stayed so calm. “Magic or something. Who knows? What did you write on it, Brownie? Maybe someone enchanted it by accident or whatever.”

There was no way Brownie was going to tell his best friend about his extremely private list all about B-52, no matter how good a friend may be… then he remembered the time when he had all but cornered Napoleon in his room and asked him about Pastel de Nata with no real option for Napoleon to deny it. Face flushed with heat, Brownie thought that maybe he owed his poor friend something now. So, gathering his courage, he turned around and opened his mouth… only to find the tip of Napoleon’s index finger shoved against his lips.

“No no nope,” Napoleon said with a bright smile. Lowering his arm, he continued, “Your face looks like you’re going through really bad constipation, so I bet that thing’s totally private. No need for you to tell me.”

“You’re sure?”

Ruby eyes shone with amusement. “Trust me, Brownie. I know you’d never forgive yourself. And I might never let you off the hook ~”

Feeling a glimmer of warmth at his friend’s understanding, the irrational part of Brownie, the panicked and scared part, swept it away almost as instantly as it came into being. “There aren’t a lot of food souls who’d come into my room,” Brownie said quickly to explain his reasoning. 

Napoleon’s eyes widened, then narrowed in understanding. Pale hands hovered over his rifle as Brownie continued to speak. “That means that it’s most likely food souls that have been assigned to cleaning duty. And since I’m not one of them, and most have been excused, it can only be Chocolate, Gluten, and -”

The last member of that now infamous trio came bursting into Brownie’s room without knocking. He had a crisp frown on his face, forehead wrinkled uglily, brilliant blue eyes dulled to near gray. One hand seemed to tremble on Brownie’s doorknob, but as the butler spun around on the heel of his boots to face him, he found that his usual concern had escaped him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked coldly, arms folded, voice stretched so thin it could have shattered like ice. Besides him, Napoleon took on his familiar battle stance, shifting his left leg back for better balance as he unsheathed his rifle.

Alerted by the click of a rifle, Coffee looked at Napoleon. Evidently pondering his options, his face flickered through various emotions: surprise, confusion, annoyance and then back to the somber aura he had projected just as he had barged into Brownie’s room. Choosing to ignore Napoleon for now, he turned to Brownie. 

Before he could speak, Brownie raised a hand to stop him. “You took something from me, didn’t you?” he asked flatly, putting it back down.

Coffee twitched his nose. “I haven’t,” he said far too quickly. Suspicion aroused, Brownie’s hackles rose and didn’t fall back down even though Coffee said, “Look, I came to get you - it’s important.”

“We’re not falling for that trick again!” Napoleon snarled, the harsh sound so profoundly unusual for someone with such sunny disposition that Coffee took a few steps back, distancing himself from the long-range weapon Napoleon held in his hands. 

“It’s really not a trick! I haven’t taken anything,” Coffee snapped back. The thing that got to Brownie, however, was the fact that he didn’t sound angry: rather he sounded… desperate, pitch too high and words almost collapsing together in his haste, and the complete lack of his usual speech pattern… but for what, Brownie had yet to determine.

Brownie willed himself to calm down, to approach this situation rationally as usual. His emotions were clouding his mind. He had to force them out. Taking a deep breath, he put his hand on Napoleon’s shoulder, beckoning him to put the rifle down. Slowly, not letting up with his glare, Napoleon obeyed, sheathing his rifle but still putting up a wary stance.

Seeing this, Coffee relaxed just enough to take a step forward. “Napoleon, please stop hissing,” he said quickly, “It’s something important for you too, since B-52 is close to both of you.”

Coffee’s impatience painted a startlingly clear image in Brownie’s mind. “What’s wrong?” he asked, anxious to find out more.

“I’ll explain. Let’s go. Come on.” Coffee turned around and started to lead the way. 

Alarmed by his short sentences, Brownie and Napoleon exchanged glances before they took off after Coffee. They matched his brisk pace evenly, Brownie on Coffee’s right and Napoleon on his left. Brownie waited patiently for Coffee to start speaking. It seemed as though he was having trouble, from the way his expression had melted into a thoughtful one. Brownie noticed that Coffee kept stealing glances at him. 

A gnawing pit opened up in his stomach: whatever this was, it couldn’t be good. Napoleon had obviously unearthed that information as well. He kept silent, none of his usual cheer present. Instead, he kept pace with Coffee’s long strides, nervously gripping the sheath of his rifle.

“Something bad happened to B-52 out in the field,” Coffee began.

It was as if a lightning bolt had struck Brownie in his path. For a moment, he stopped walking as his brain fought to process the information. Then, Brownie ran forward, all butler mannerisms forgotten as he cried out, “Something bad? What happened? How did it happen? How… _could_ it happen?” Brownie said his last words in a whisper, his entire frame trembling as his mind raced towards darker and darker thoughts.

The catacombs… no… they had found B-52 broken and bleeding, barely alive where he lay… Brownie closed his eyes, unwilling but unable to fight off the images that kept coming. B-52 being hurt and alone, B-52 lying there with blood pooling near his side, B-52’s barely heard breathing, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, his cane wrenched from him a short distance away, bent. Was it broken now? Had B-52 gotten off better or worse than the first time Brownie had ever met his partner?

B-52 was his _partner_. They’d spent so much time together, had so many battle experiences together, and now they had just recently entered the foray of a whole new sort of relationship. He couldn’t lose B-52 now when it had barely began! That wasn't fair! He wouldn’t let B-52 be taken from him by the gods just like that! He treasured him, his precious partner. There was a time when they hadn’t met, but now Brownie couldn’t imagine life without B-52. It would be dark and miserable...

“-nie, Brownie, you listening?”

Brownie snapped to attention, realising that his cat ears had flattened against his skull. Mind dazed from what Coffee had told him, it was all he could do to nod.

With a sigh, and a kindly smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, Coffee gently laid a hand on Brownie’s shoulder. “B-52 was in bad shape,” he explained patiently, and Brownie felt just the tiniest prickling of guilt at having been caught not paying attention. “Today his team faced off with a very powerful fallen angel. With Milk, Salad and Jello working to help him, he will be fine. They told me that B-52 was probably the reason they weren’t all slaughtered alive.” Coffee fidgeted. “Unfortunately I don’t know how long he’ll take to heal.”

In the midst of Coffee’s explanation, Napoleon had crossed their short distance to give Brownie a tight hug. Brownie could feel tears dampening his butler’s outfit, but that was the furthest worry on his mind right now. A sliver of pride wormed through at the thought of his partner being able to pull through and save everyone else, drowned out by the widening fear that he’d neve... B-52… no. B-52 was strong and tough. No. No, he mustn’t allow his mind to venture there.

Even though Brownie was choked up with invisible sobs he refused to release, he still managed, “Degree? Nature of damage?” like his first aid instincts had told him to. There was nothing Brownie could do for B-52, however. The best option was for him to stay in the care of Master Attendant’s healers.

Coffee shook his head sadly as Napoleon grasped Brownie tighter. “They didn’t tell me anything,” he explained. “You’ll find out if you visit him now.” Coffee nodded in the direction of the infirmary. The door was closed, unusually, for a reason Brownie knew very well. 

Wasting no more time, Brownie simply nodded at Coffee as thanks as Napoleon grabbed his hand and dragged them both to the infirmary without a second thought.

Coffee remained standing there, watching as Brownie and Napoleon dashed off without a second thought. His heart ached for them. Though he hadn’t seen B-52 - hadn’t been allowed - Coffee knew it couldn’t possibly be good news. He sent his prayers to the angels and demons, or whoever could possibly help B-52 in this situation. Coffee also couldn’t help thinking that Brownie would probably like to hear it more from either a food soul he actually liked or someone who had participated in a battle, who would be able to answer their questions. As it was, though, Master Attendant was busy questioning Bamboo, Foie, and Black Tea while Milk worked tirelessly to save B-52 from succumbing to his injuries.

As Foie had said to him when she asked him to pass along the message, only fate could help B-52 now.

Brownie most likely didn’t see Coffee as worthy of respect anymore after that whole fiasco with his maid uniform, and honestly Coffee couldn’t blame the butler. It had been worth it, in his humble opinion, to have Brownie and B-52 finally work up the courage to confess to each other. Seeing them going around and being cute together was often enough to soften the smirk on Chocolate’s face.

It pained him to think that he and B-52 might forever be separated from each other. Brownie’s pain was an ocean compared to his drop, of course, but Coffee had nothing but the deepest sympathy for the butler right now, who had lost his stoicism in his time of pain. It had taken his all not to break down right there and then, Coffee could tell.

Maybe if he could do just a little bit, to help Brownie in this trying time.

Then Coffee jerked with the realisation. _Hang on, just now when I went to deliver the message Brownie seemed annoyed about something, something I supposedly stole._

Whirling around, Coffee headed in the direction of Chocolate’s room. 

_Even if it’s just a little thing, I’ll do what I can for you right now, Brownie. I dare not speak of the darkness of devils when you’re suffering so much. And of course, I’ll keep your partner in my prayers as well._


End file.
